Mortal Mischief - читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги автора Frank Tallis (ч. 2)

'Nurse,' repeated the girl in a tremulous voice. 'Look at her lips. I think she's trying to say something.'

Sabina Rupius pressed her ear close to the governess's mouth. Miss Lydgate was saying something – but not in German. Nurse Rupius's command of English was not very good, yet she was able to recognise a few of the words and she made a determined effort to remember what the woman was saying.

'I'll do it, if you won't,' said the governess. 'I'll do it. I'll do it, if you won't . . .'

THE LOCK WAS HELD in place by two small vices. Only a single candle burned on the mantelpiece, but he did not need to see what he was doing. In his mind he held a mental picture of the mechanism, and his dexterous fingers responded to the slightest resistance as he manoeuvred the pick.

It was what he did to divert himself and he had been doing so for many years. Some might play chess or a musical instrument, or read poetry, but Karl Uberhorst picked locks. The task was so demanding that he could lose himself in the process and hence avoid thinking about those things that made his soul ache: his loneliness and regrets.

Sometimes it would take him months to work out (by trial and error) the exact sequence of the movements necessary to pick a particular lock. But for a man whose life was solitary and without any event save the routine, the duration of each project was largely irrelevant. His patience was infinite. Moreover, he felt that he had no right to claim an understanding of any lock mechanism unless he could master it.

Although a sensitive man, Uberhorst was not fanciful. Yet, on occasion, lock-picking would stir and awaken in him something close to poetic inspiration. Similes that were then transformed into colouful mental frescoes would suggest themselves. He was like a mystic, probing the mysteries of the universe; like a lover overcoming the resistance of a coy woman; like Oedipus discovering the secret of the sphinx. These similes, when they surfaced, influenced his technique. Some locks needed to be persuaded, seduced with subtle stratagems – while others needed to be stormed, requiring a kind of heroism.

The lock upon which he was working was a Chubb-style 'detector' that had recently been patented in America (a country that now seemed to be threatening the historical pre-eminence of the British). Such locks required great care, as the bolt would become trapped if any of the levers were raised too high. The lock would then have to be reset using the true key, and he would have to begin his labours afresh. Biting his lower lip, he insinuated the pick, testing each lever to establish which one secured the bolt.

In addition to recreation and analgesia, Uberhorst's singular hobby served another, less readily articulated purpose. Somewhere, in the darker recesses of his sombre mind, a germ of ambition had taken root. His comprehensive understanding of lock mechanisms would allow him, one day, to design a system that was truly invulnerable. In the moments before sleep, he was teased by a speculative vision, a hypothetical mechanism floating in the darkness: a pin-tumbler lock with a revolving cylinder . . .

Uberhorst closed his eyes and raised the lever, feeling the slight resistance.

A little more . . . a little more.

At this point, skill required the supplementary advantage of intuition. Uberhorst decided that he would take a risk.

Ever so gently . . .

But he had gone too far. He had tripped the lever past the corner of the detecting spring.

The bolt was trapped.

He sighed, withdrew the pick, and considered the importance of his mistake. As he did so, his thoughts were interrupted by an image that had been invading his mind all week: the Inspector – sagging eyes and turned-up moustache, his large body filling the workshop, the final words of their conversation.

Then you must be mistaken, Inspector.

Why?

It's impossible.

Really? Even for a master locksmith?

If Uberhorst wasn't careful, he could find himself swinging from a rope.

WHEN LIEBERMANN HAD ACCEPTED his father's invitation to dinner he had felt slightly uneasy. The feeling had returned as he got out of the cab in Concordiaplatz, and when he discovered that in addition to his parents and younger sister Hannah, his elder sister Leah had been invited – with her husband Josef – and that little Daniel was also present his heart sank. Mendel had obviously decided to organise a family gathering around his son's visit, which meant that the old man would feel justified in celebrating the Sabbath.

With his wine cup conspicuously raised, Mendel stood at the head of the table, reciting Kiddush with the solemnity of an Old Testament prophet.

Mendel was perfectly aware that his son had virtually no attachment to Jewish tradition, but it was a fact that he was unwilling to accept. Indeed, at times it seemed to Liebermann that his father was conducting a war of attrition – always seeking to erode his resistance by subjecting him whenever possible to customs and rituals.

'Boruch Atoh Adonoi Eloheinu Melech Hoolom . . .'

Blessed are You, Lord, Our God, King of the Universe, who sanctifies us with his commandments, and has been pleased with us.

Across the table, beyond the Sabbath candles, Liebermann caught Hannah's eye and assumed an expression of exaggerated piety. His younger sister looked away, and Liebermann was gratified to see her shoulders shaking as she fought to conceal laughter. He found the ease with which he could provoke her only slightly less remarkable than the magnitude of his own immaturity.

'Kiy Vanu Vacharsa V'osanu Kidashta Mikol Haamim . . .'

Indeed, You have chosen us and made us holy among all people, and have willingly and lovingly given us Your holy Sabbath for an inheritance.

Liebermann filled the vessel for washing hands, and systematically poured a small quantity of water over his right hand, then his left, three times in succession. His actions reminded him of the superstitious rituals associated with obsessional neuroses. Before drying his hands he recited the next blessing.

Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, who sanctifies us with his commandments, and commands us concerning washing of hands.

Leah, gifted with the uncanny prescience of watchful mothers, intercepted Daniel's chubby little fingers as they crawled towards the bread. Unperturbed, Mendel removed the shabbos deckle covering the loaves in preparation for the final blessing:

'Boruch Atoh Adonoi Eloheinu Melech Hoolom,'

Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the Universe,

'Hamoitzi Lechem Min Haaretz.'

Who brings forth bread from the earth.

Liebermann whispered an indifferent 'Amein' with the others, and winked at Hannah when she lifted her head. She was smiling – a broad, triumphal smile. Once again, she had survived the Sabbath ritual, in spite of her brother's efforts to embarrass her.

Mendel signalled to the head servant who had been patiently standing by the door and a few moments later the room was a hive of activity. A large tureen of chicken soup was deposited in the middle of the table, and several conversations began at once. Liebermann's mother – Rebecca – was fussing over Daniel, while Mendel questioned Josef on an abstruse point of contract law. The old man looked down the table at his son, willing him to join in, but Liebermann only smiled and turned towards Hannah.

'So,' he began. But before he could utter another word his mother was talking to him.

'Maxim, you'll never guess who I met the other day.'

'Who?'

'Frau Hirschfeld.'

'Really?'

'Yes. I haven't seen her for years. Apparently –' without pausing, Rebecca wiped a dribble of soup from Daniel's mouth and combed his hair with her fingers '– they've been living in Italy – the whole family – except for Martin, of course. Do you ever see Martin?'

'Very rarely.'

'He's been promoted, you know.' Rebecca passed more bread to Mendel. 'She was looking well, Frau Hirschfeld. She's put on a little weight, of course – but then, who doesn't when you get to our age.' With a swiftness that almost eluded detection, Rebecca adjusted the angle of the spoon in Leah's hand before it reached Daniel's mouth. 'Oh, and Rosamund – you remember Martin's sister Rosamund? She has two children now. She was the one who married the architect. What was his name?'

'Weisel. Hermann Weisel.'

'That's right. Herr Klein's cousin. Making a name for himself – so Frau Hischfeld says.'

'Herr Klein?'

'No, no. The architect.' Suddenly turning on her husband, she said: 'Mendel, let Josef eat. He hasn't touched his soup.'

Gesturing towards Rebecca's bowl, Mendel responded dryly: 'Neither have you, my dear.'

Rebecca shrugged and continued to fret and fidget.

'So,' said Liebermann, looking across the table at Hannah for the second time. 'What have you been up to?'

Hannah screwed up her face.

'Nothing, really.'

Liebermann shook his head.

'You must have done something, I haven't seen you for almost a month.'

'All right,' said Hannah, her adolescent moue softening to become a more adult pout, 'I've been to see Emelie. But that's all.'

'Really?'

'Yes, really.'

Liebermann felt sorry for his younger sister. Hannah was a late addition to the family, and since Leah's marriage she had had to live alone with their parents. At sixteen she had been marooned in a household that was beginning to feel frowsty and moribund.

'Then I suppose I should take you out, to cheer you up. How would you like that?'

Hannah's face brightened.

'I'd like that very much.'

'Where do you want to go?'

'I don't know.'

'Come on – you choose.'

'An exhibition?'

'Which one?'

'Any one.'

'Well, what about the Secession? Would you like to see that? It's in the new building. You know, the one that the philistines are calling the golden cabbage.'

'Will it be very . . .' She paused before adding, 'Modern?'

'Of course – but you'll love it, I promise you. Klimt has produced a massive frieze. Very controversial, apparently.'

'I'm not sure father would—'

Liebermann raised a finger to his lips. Checking to see that Mendel hadn't heard anything, he whispered: 'I'll send you a note. Sometime next week.'

The Liebermann family sustained a babble of conversation through several courses, flagging only after the arrival of dessert – a fragrant pool of plum compote in a wide silver dish. The cook brought it to the table personally, and was welcomed with a chorus of compliments.

When everyone had finished eating Liebermann stood up.

'Could I have your attention, please.'

The room fell silent.

'I'm glad you're all here – because I have an important announcement to make.'

'Announcement?' said Rebecca, more anxious than curious. 'What announcement?'

Mendel rested a pacifying hand on Rebecca's arm.

'I'm about to tell you, Mother,' said Liebermann.

He looked around the table. All of his family were viewing him with questioning eyes. Only Mendel seemed fully composed.

'Last Thursday,' Liebermann began, 'I proposed to Clara Weiss.' He paused, prolonging the suspense. 'And . . . I am delighted to report that she accepted my proposal. We are engaged to be married.'

A heartbeat of silence preceded an eruption of cries and applause. Rebecca rose from her chair and, rushing to her son, threw her arms around his neck. Leah and Hannah followed – and a few moments later Liebermann found himself in the middle of an affectionate, tearful scrum, being squeezed, kissed and congratulated. The frenzy was so sudden, and so loud, that it frightened little Daniel – who subsequently added to the hubbub by bawling. When Liebermann was finally released, he found that his father had risen too and was now standing directly in front of him. The old man opened his arms.

'Congratulations, my boy.'

'Thank you, Father.'

They embraced – for the first time in more years than Liebermann could remember.

THE INTERROGATION ROOM was sparsely furnished: a table and some simple wooden chairs. The Spartan emptiness was softened a little by a photographic portrait of the ubiquitous Franz Josef. The old Emperor looked down, radiating benevolence. From his elevated, almost godlike vantage point, he appeared content to wait aeons for a confession. The same, however, could not be said of Rheinhardt.

Once again, the Inspector found himself feeling somewhat irritated and bemused by his friend's roundabout questioning. Even Natalie Heck was showing signs of bewilderment. She had clearly been expecting a more demanding interview, perhaps anticipating being tricked by the 'doctor' into revealing more than she intended. Instead, Liebermann had spent an inordinate amount of time discussing the craft of dressmaking and now seemed wholly fixated on the seamstress's knowledge of Fräulein Löwenstein's wardrobe. Rheinhardt had watched Fräulein Heck's expression pass from fear through relief to something that looked very much like confusion.

'There were three silk dresses?'

'Yes,' replied Natalie Heck, 'as far as I know. A red one – she bought it from Taubenrauch and Cie, the shop on Mariahilferstrasse – a green one, and a blue one – designed by Bertha Fürst. She would sometimes wear a wonderful butterfly brooch with the blue one.' 'And they were well made? Of good quality?' 'Of course. The silk was very expensive – Chinese, I think. And they were beautifully cut – particularly the Fürst – although not to everyone's taste.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Some would say they were immodest.'

'And what would you say?'

'I . . .' Natalie faltered before raising her chin and proudly declaring, 'I would not have been comfortable wearing such a dress.'

Rheinhardt stifled a yawn and consulted his pocket watch.

'So,' continued Liebermann, 'it was Fräulein Löwenstein's habit to wear one of these dresses every Thursday evening.'

'Yes.'

'She never wore any of the other dresses?'

'There was a black velvet ball gown – and an old satin one . . . but she stopped wearing them. Some time ago, in fact.'

'They were of inferior quality?'

'Yes. The cuff of the ball gown had frayed.'

'Tell me, did Fräulein Löwenstein exhibit an equal fondness for each of her silk dresses? Or did she like one more than the others?'

'She wore the blue one most – but that's because it was more comfortable.'

'And how do you know that?'

'Why,' said Natalie Heck, smiling, 'because she asked me to let it out. She said that it had always been too tight.'

Liebermann paused for a moment. He picked a hair off his trousers and disposed of it at arm's length. Then, returning his attention to Fräulein Heck, he asked: 'Didn't that strike you as odd?'

Natalie Heck did not understand the question. She pressed her lips together and stared blankly, her large dark eyes opened wide – two pools of Indian ink. 'Remarkable, don't you think?' continued Liebermann. 'That such a well-made dress should be too tight? Would someone like Frau Fürst – someone with such a fine reputation – make such an elementary mistake?'

Natalie Heck shrugged.

'These things happen. You can measure someone one day, and the next . . .' She held her hands out in front of her body and moved them apart.

Liebermann fell silent. He removed his spectacles and began cleaning the lenses with his handkerchief. When he had finished, he placed the handkerchief back in his pocket and inspected the lenses against the light. As he was doing this, he said, in the careless manner of an incidental observation or afterthought: 'Fräulein Heck, why were you visiting Herr Braun's apartment?'

Natalie Heck looked surprised as the interview veered – quite suddenly – into less comfortable territory. Rheinhardt stopped grooming his moustache and sat up straight.

'Herr Braun,' said Fräulein Heck, 'is my friend.'

Liebermann replaced his spectacles, and looked directly into the young woman's eyes. She looked away, and her cheeks flushed a little.

'Do you often visit Herr Braun's apartment?' After the smallest of pauses, he added: 'Alone?'

Natalie Heck shook her head: 'No, no. Herr Braun is my friend. We aren't . . .'

'Please,' Liebermann interrupted. 'Forgive me. It wasn't my intention to suggest any impropriety on your part.' Then, carefully selecting his words, he added: 'Any immodesty.'

Natalie Heck turned bright red. Flustered, she launched into a garbled defence.

'I've only been to Herr Braun's apartment a few times. He isn't a strong man – he's often sickly. On Saturday, when the constable stopped me – I was worried – I wanted to see if he was all right.'

'Do you have any idea where he is now?'

'Of course not.' She looked angrily towards Rheinhardt. 'Inspector, I told you the truth last week. There's nothing more to tell.'

'Indeed, Fräulein,' said Rheinhardt, 'and we are very grateful for your assistance.'

Natalie Heck turned to face Liebermann again. He continued as if the previous exchange hadn't happened.

'Do you think, Fräulein, that your friend Herr Braun was attracted to Fräulein Löwenstein?'

'I . . .' She struggled to regain her composure. 'I think he probably was. She was a very beautiful woman.'

'Did he ever talk about her?'

'No.'

'Then why do you think he was attracted to her?'

'Sometimes . . .' She tightened her richly coloured shawl around her shoulders as though a cold wind had passed through the room. 'Sometimes he would look at her in a certain way.'

Just as Rheinhardt thought that his friend had scented blood and was preparing his prey for the delivery of a fatal question, Liebermann simply smiled, leaned back in his chair, and said: 'Thank you, Fräulein Heck. You have been most helpful.' Then, turning to Rheinhardt, he added: 'I have no further questions, Inspector.'

'Are you sure, Herr Doctor?' said Rheinhardt.

'Yes, Inspector. Quite sure.'

Rheinhardt stood, somewhat reluctantly, wondering whether Liebermann was playing a psychological game and was craftily creating in Natalie Heck a false sense of security. But the young doctor showed no signs of further engagement.

'In which case,' said Rheinhardt, 'you are free to leave, Fräulein Heck.'

The seamstress rose from her chair and, frostily giving Liebermann a wide berth, left the room. Rheinhardt followed and Liebermann heard his friend instructing an officer to escort Fräulein Heck back to her home near the Prater.

When Rheinhardt returned, he sat in the chair previously occupied by the seamstress. For a moment the two men shared an uneasy silence. Finally Rheinhardt shook his head: 'That was a curious interview, Max.'

'Was it?'

'Yes. Why did you bring it to such a peremptory close? Just – or so it seemed to me – when things were starting to get interesting.'

'Fräulein Heck has told us all that she knows.'

'Then this hasn't been a very productive morning.'

'Well, I wouldn't say that.'

Rheinhardt frowned.

'All right: do we know anything now that we didn't know yesterday?'

'Yes – quite a lot, I think. We know that Natalie Heck was besotted with Otto Braun: her denial spoke volumes. We also have more evidence to suggest that Fräulein Löwenstein and Braun were lovers. Heck's despair was palpable. But more importantly, we now have confirmation of an earlier hypothesis.'

'We do?'

'Oh yes. You will recall that I speculated about the presence of a third person when Charlotte Löwenstein was murdered?'

'Indeed, but—'

Interrupting, Liebermann continued: 'We now know the identity of that third person.'

Liebermann paused and Rheinhardt, unable to restrain himself, stood up again. His movement was so abrupt his chair rocked back and almost toppled over.

'What?'

'The third person,' said Liebermann softly, 'was Fräulein Löwenstein's unborn child. At the time of her murder, she was approximately three months pregnant.'

'But how on earth have you deduced that?' cried Rheinhardt. The door opened, and a junior officer poked his head in.

'Everything all right, sir?'

'Yes, yes,' said Rheinhardt impatiently, waving his hands in the air. The officer bowed apologetically, and closed the door.

'I'll explain in due course,' said Liebermann. 'I must get back to the hospital. But for the moment, Oskar, I would strongly urge you to compose a polite note to Professor Mathias, requesting the completion of Fräulein Löwenstein's interrupted autopsy – as soon as possible.'

'Of course.'

'Oh, and Oskar?'

'Yes.'

'I would like to attend as well – if I may?'

ZOLTÁN ZÁBORSZKY was sitting at his usual table in the garden of Csarda, a restaurant on the Prater. A cimbalom player and two violinists were performing 'Rákóczi's Lament', a folk song that Záborszky's nurse would sing to him when he had been a very small child. He closed his eyes, and for a moment it seemed to him that he could hear again the Tisza flowing through the park of the long-lost family estate. In his mind, he could see the imposing house with its battlements and round towers, perched on its steep, rocky bluff: those cavernous rooms, which in the summer had filled with a soft, slow light that rolled through the windows like honey. Who, he wondered, would now be availing himself of that well-stocked cellar, which, under blankets of spiders' silk, had contained bottles brought from the finest wine merchants in Paris?

Záborszky took a sip of his lifeless burgundy and winced, as though suffering from a toothache.

Had his father, the old Count, survived the final onslaught of tuberculosis he would very probably have risen from his bed with only one intention – to plant a bullet in his errant son's brain. Záborszky contemplated this imaginary scenario with some regularity, and more often than not regretted that it had not come to pass.

When the music stopped, he beckoned to the cimbalom player who immediately rested his mallets on the strings and came over to Záborszky's table.

'Yes, my dear Count?'

The musician could not suppress his reaction to Záborszky's appearance. He had acquired a sumptuous black eye. Swollen flesh had almost closed the socket, making the whites and the iris barely visible.

Záborszky noticed the musician flinching.

'An accident,' he said flatly.

'You must take better care of yourself, Count.'

'Indeed,' Záborszky folded a serviette before continuing. 'Tamás, please . . . no more of the old tunes.'

'Ahh, I understand,' the musician smiled sympathetically. 'The melancholy, is it?'

Záborszky nodded, his single visible eye becoming moist.

The musician bowed and marched back to his companions. When they started to play again, the air filled with a spare but spirited arrangement of Strauss's Kaiser Waltz. Záborszky picked up his copy of the Wiener Zeitung and read the news – most of which did not interest him. Occasionally the text was interrupted by otherwise blank spaces bearing the single word 'Confiscated'. Copies of every paper were submitted each morning for approval by the censor – who was inclined to judge numerous articles unfit for public consumption. Záborszky was about to put the Zeitung down again, when his attention was drawn by a headline: Leopoldstadt Murder Baffles Police.

So: they had finally decided to publish the details. Záborszky wondered whether the delay was anything to do with the censor.

In his eagerness to read the article he skipped whole sentences.

Locked room . . . no bullet . . . a statuette of an ancient god . . .

Clever illusion . . . stagecraft

A thin smile appeared on Záborszky's face.

Looking for a young man called Otto Braun.

Tamás, assuming that the Count was enjoying the Strauss, beat the strings of his cimbalom with greater vigour and encouraged his companions to play faster.

'That bumbling clown of an Inspector,' muttered Záborszky to himself. 'Completely out of his depth.'

Záborszky could picture them all: the constables with their ridiculous spiked helmets and sabres guarding the entrance, the Inspector's team floundering around her apartment, tapping the walls, looking for trapdoors and levers. They would discover nothing.

The Count closed his good eye again, and a distant memory floated to the surface of his already troubled mind: winter. Ravens, like tattered rags, caught on the branches of bare trees.

He had been hunting in the immense wood that covered the uplands of the estate: pools of fog churning in the hollows, clods of frozen earth kicked up by the horse.

The animal had been frightened. It sensed danger. An old crone was standing by the bridleway. She seemed to come from nowhere. The horse neighed and nervously swung its head. Záborszky did not know who she was – but he knew what she was.

The witch had spoken a taboo word. She had mentioned the szépasszony – The Fair Lady, the beautiful woman with long blonde hair who preyed on young men. The demonic seductress who emerged in storms and showers of hail . . .

The witch had cursed him.

She will get you, the witch had said.

FRÄULEIN LÖWENSTEIN'S BODY had been returned to the dissection table where it lay concealed under covers. The folds and creases of the material created a miniature landscape of mounds and ravines that all but disguised the human form underneath. The air was ripe with corruption – a noxious effluvium that might have been coughed up through a vent in the earth's crust.

Professor Mathias tugged gently at the top sheet. It slipped downward, revealing Fräulein Löwenstein's face. Rheinhardt had not expected her to be very much changed, but already her skin was discoloured and her features wasted. Her lips, previously blue in the early stages of death, were now almost black. There was something about her expression that suggested terror, as though her mouldering brain was still in possession of just enough sentience to generate a nightmare. Only Fräulein Löwenstein's hair had retained its incandescence. Her curls and tresses blazed defiantly beneath the merciless electric light.

Mathias placed a finger on her brow and pressed out a wrinkle.

'The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away.'

Rheinhardt caught Liebermann's eye and assumed a hangdog expression – the old man's eccentricity was already beginning to pall. Mathias sighed and, slowly lifting his head, examined the young doctor who stood on the opposite side of the table.

'I will grant your request,' said Mathias with sudden firmness. 'But I do so with some reluctance. I still suspect that we are all the victims of some dreadful practical joke. What you ask, Liebermann, is a kind of violation – you realise that, don't you? It is not a procedure that I undertake lightly.'

Liebermann had been forewarned of Mathias's peculiar affinity with the dead and was prompted to wonder why a man possessed of such sensitivities should choose to be a pathologist in the first place.

'Professor Mathias,' said Liebermann, 'permit me to assure you that I have given this matter the utmost consideration.'

'I hope so,' Mathias continued. 'Because if you are wrong and your psychological methods of deduction prove deficient, not only shall we all appear very foolish – yet again, I might add – but we shall also have performed an inexcusable act of violence against this poor, poor woman.'

Mathias's eyes bulged behind his thick lenses.

'Indeed,' said Liebermann. 'However, I am confident that the results of today's post-mortem examination will be in accordance with my prediction and of great value to my colleague.' He motioned towards Rheinhardt.

Mathias tilted his head a little.

'Where do you work, Liebermann?'

'In the psychiatry department of the General Hospital.'

'Under Professor Gruner?'

'Yes.'

'And what is your opinion of Professor Gruner?'

Liebermann replied with some hesitancy: 'I do not think it appropriate for me to comment on—'

'Come now – I am asking you a perfectly reasonable question!' Mathias snapped. 'What is your opinion of Professor Gruner?'

'I cannot claim any special knowledge of Professor Gruner as a man; however, as a doctor . . .'

'Yes?'

Liebermann took a deep breath: 'I disagree with his methods profoundly.'

'And why?'

'They are inhumane.'

Mathias grunted his assent.

'Precisely. The man's an idiot. Slowest student in my anatomy class – only got where he is today through nepotism and patronage!' Liebermann heard Rheinhardt releasing a little whistle of relief. 'Well, Herr Doctor,' continued Mathias, 'Perhaps you are not such a bad judge after all. Even though,' he added under his breath, 'you have decided to specialise in the most disreputable branch of medicine.'

Liebermann smiled politely and trapped his tongue between his teeth.

The old professor dragged his trolley closer to the table and began to arrange his collection of instruments. He moved a mallet a fraction of an inch to the left, but then nudged it back again. He then started lining up knives, only to give up halfway through in order to restart the operation from the very beginning. Liebermann was quick to recognise a very obvious case of obsessional neurosis.

Rheinhardt was growing impatient. Not only was he anxious for the professor to proceed but he was also finding the smell of the morgue intolerable. Fräulein Löwenstein's body was exuding fetid vapours that made his gorge rise. The air was thick with formaldehyde fumes and the stench of putrefaction. Rheinhardt took out a handkerchief and held it over his face, attracting the attention of Professor Mathias.

'Do you know,' the old man said, 'I can hardly smell a thing. I'm so used to it.' He placed a serrated blade next to a chisel and added: 'Might I suggest some cigars, gentlemen? Smoking makes the effluvium more tolerable – so I'm told.'

'Thank you, Herr Professor,' said Rheinhardt.

With quick, desperate movements the Inspector undid the top button of his jacket and pulled out a flat box of panatellas. He immediately lit a cigar and drew on it until his head almost disappeared in a cloud of pungent smoke. Rheinhardt's tense lineaments softened with pleasure as the fragrant tobacco neutralised the stench.

'Forgive me. Herr Doctor?' He offered his friend the box.

Liebermann felt that as a medical man he should be able to cope without smoking; however, he had not attended an autopsy for a long time and the rising miasma was making him feel quite sick.

'Thank you,' he said, taking the box.

Professor Mathias completed his preparatory ritual and proclaimed: 'If we do not find anything pleasant, at least we shall find something new.'

He then looked at his two companions, an expectant expression on his face.

'No? Very well, it was from Candide.' He then gently turned back the lower covers, revealing Fräulein Löwenstein's abdomen. Her stomach was bloated, the skin stretched taut by the gases in her gut. The sides of her back, pressed against the grey slab of the table, were marbled with streaks of maroon and violet. Mathias fussed with the canvas, ensuring that the dead woman's pudenda were properly covered.

'Herr Professor,' said Liebermann. 'Before you begin, may I see the bullet wound?' Mathias flashed a disapproving look in Liebermann's direction. 'Please,' Liebermann added hopefully.

Mathias lifted the upper sheet and dropped it again, offering Liebermann the briefest of glances.

'And you have no explanation?' Liebermann asked.

'None,' replied Mathias. The response was cool and dismissive.

The old man selected a small blade and began to make a series of incisions in Fräulein Löwenstein's abdomen. He peeled back the flesh, creating a large opening though which one could see the rounded, pink surface of the bladder. Behind it was the slightly darker mass of the uterus. Rheinhardt looked away.

'Well, well . . .' said Professor Mathias. He had become a little breathless and was wheezing slightly.

'What is it?' said Rheinhardt.

'The womb is engorged.'

Smoke from Rheinhardt's cigar rolled across Fräulein Löwenstein's body and collected inside the abdominal cavity. Mathias emitted a grunt of disapproval.

'Does that mean—'

'Patience, Inspector. How many times do I have to tell you!'

'Festina lente?'

'Of course. Festina lente.'

The old man wiped the gore from his blade, and then selected a large pair of scissors. He reached into Fräulein Löwenstein's body, made some cuts, and scooped the dead woman's bladder out of her abdomen with both hands. He deposited the limp sack into a jar of formaldehyde and paused to watch it sink. The organ descended, leaving stringy trails of brown viscosity in its wake. Mathias seemed deep in thought.

'Very interesting . . .' he said softly.

'What is?' asked Rheinhardt.

Mathias ignored the question. Instead, he briefly addressed Fräulein Löwenstein's head: 'Excuse me.' He then plunged his hands back into her body and pressed his palms against the straining balloon of her uterus.

'Yes,' he repeated. 'Very interesting indeed.'

After wiping a foul transparent residue from his fingers, Professor Mathias selected another knife and made two swift incisions. Liebermann had seen waiters in The Imperial make similar movements when preparing fruit. Mathias crouched over Fräulein Löwenstein's body and accompanied by the melodic inventions of his tired lungs, turned back the quarters of the segmented uterus with tender care.

When he had finished the operation he remained perfectly still. Neither Rheinhardt nor Liebermann could see what the old man had discovered. Mathias was bent over the corpse, his bloody hands still buried among Fräulein Löwenstein's innards.

Rheinhardt cleared his throat, hoping to attract the pathologist's attention.

There was no response.

'Herr Professor?

Mathias shook his head and whispered something inaudible.

Liebermann looked at Rheinhardt questioningly.

'Professor?' Rheinhardt repeated.

The old man took a step backwards and, gesturing towards Fräulein Löwenstein's exposed abdomen, said: 'Gentlemen . . .'

The Inspector and the doctor moved forwards.

Liebermann had considered himself beyond surprise. He was certain that Fräulein Löwenstein was pregnant and had already formed a mental image of what he was about to see.

But he was mistaken.

Suddenly all of his expectations were invalidated.

'Dear God,' said Rheinhardt.

In the raw and exposed shell of Fräulein Lowenstein's womb were two small bodies, each no bigger than a man's thumb but complete in every human detail. The tiny fingers and toes were fully formed, and the faces – with closed eyes – were a picture of serenity. A tangle of umbilical cord lay between them, like a serpent guardian. They looked snug in their rank puddle of amniotic fluid.

As the initial shock subsided, Liebermann was visited by a terrible sadness. He was moved to say a prayer, but in the absence of any religious instinct was forced to seek solace in the surrogate balm of poetry: 'Sleep is good, death is better; but of course, the best thing would be never to have been born at all.'

'Heinrich Heine,' said Professor Mathias, demonstrating again his peculiar fondness for quotations and their identification.

'Morphine. I commend you on two counts, Herr Doctor: your powers of deduction and your choice of epitaph. We live in a wicked world. They will never be touched by evil or pain. Their innocent slumber will be eternal.'

Saying this, the professor anointed each tiny skull with the tip of his forefinger. Liebermann had never seen such a bizarre or macabre benediction.

Mathias wiped his fingers on his apron, leaving ruddy mucous trails. Looking at Rheinhardt, he added: 'Well, Inspector, it seems you are now investigating a triple murder.'

THE ROOM WAS quite small but decorated like a sultan's palace. The curtains were dark blue, almost black, and embellished with a braided motif of gold. A pile of cushions decorated with silver thread and studded with tiny mirrors and pearls had tumbled off the divan and lay scattered across the floor. Three large candles, each as thick as a child's arm, burned in holders that were encrusted with gemstones: sardonyx, opal, sapphire and chrysoprase; and the air was dense with the heavy perfume of frankincense, a small heap of which was smouldering in a massive dish of polished granite.

Seated at a baize-covered card table was a substantial woman whose ample curves had been compressed between the solid arms of a large wooden throne. It possessed the primitive dignity of a medieval artefact – the high back-panel was festooned with crudely carved rosettes and serpentine creepers, among which were an odd company of raging gargoyles and winged seraphim.

Fräulein Löwenstein had been found dead in a locked room.

She had been shot through the heart – yet there was no bullet.

In the Zeitung they had tried to suggest that nothing strange had happened, that Braun might be responsible, that it was all an illusion – an elaborate stage trick. But what did they know?

Cosima von Rath cast her mind back to a strange meeting that had occurred two years earlier. She had travelled to New York with her father. At a society gathering hosted by the Decker family at which she and Ferdinand had been totally ignored by the Rothschilds (the snub still smarted), she had been introduced to a young English magus – Lord Boleskine, a handsome fellow – who had curiously ardent eyes. Boleskine was in New York trying to raise money for his own magical order, The Lamp of the Invisible Light. So persuasive was Boleskine that she had agreed to make a donation there and then, and had subsequently made several more in response to his letters. In return, Boleskine had sent her some volumes of poetry, which he had written himself under the unassuming name of Aleister Crowley. The most recent, The Soul of Osiris, lay on the table in front of her.

On the occasion of their first meeting Boleskine had rested a hand on Cosima von Rath's arm and leaning close – too close, perhaps – had whispered: I know who you are. Forgive these fools.

Sweeping his hand around the room in an extravagant gesture, he had added: They know nothing.

Ushering her on to the balcony, from where they could see the Statue of Liberty in the distance, Boleskine had taken her into his confidence. He explained how he had been experimenting with a ritual that could make the celebrant invisible. A magus of Boleskine's stature – or someone even more skilled in the black arts – might enter a room, commit a murder, and simply wait for the locked door to be broken down, whereupon he could slip away unnoticed – right under the noses of the dim-witted investigators.

Reflecting on her hypothesis, Cosima congratulated herself, but she was troubled by its implications. Would Fräulein Löwenstein really have had the opportunity to mix in such exalted circles? She had been a talented medium, without doubt, but not someone versed in arcane law, that much was obvious. Hers had been a natural gift – raw and untutored. She had known virtually nothing of the Egyptian deities. When Cosima had mentioned Horus, Isis, and Hoor-Paar-Kraat (better known to the uninitiated as Seth), Charlotte Löwenstein had simply changed the subject, showing the unmistakable signs of embarrassment.

Cosima wriggled uncomfortably. The chair arms were pressing into the flesh that hung in loose folds around her stomach and hips. She picked up her well-worn set of tarot cards and flicked through the minor trumps, removing the four queens.

Which, she wondered, would best serve the purpose of representing Charlotte Löwenstein?

She touched each of the four suits and after some deliberation returned her stubby forefinger to the Queen of Cups, which she pushed out of the regal parade and towards a sphere of glass that rested in an ivory cradle on the card table.

Of course, there was still another possibility. Fräulein Löwenstein might have meddled with powers that she was ultimately unable to control. Lord Boleskine had spoken of 'The Operation of Abramelin' and other such rites: calling forth the four Great Princes of the world's evil – and their eight sub-princes . . . Charlotte Löwenstein's uncomplicated personality may have been a ruse, an expedient disguise, concealing a proud heart and more ambition than Cosima had at first suspected. If the silly girl had attempted to bargain with forces that she did not understand they would have exacted a terrible and unspeakable revenge.

Cosima stroked the diamond-encrusted ankh that hung from her neck, and stared into the crystal ball. An inverted world hung in its watery bubble, supporting no life except a deformed homunculus with bulging eyes. Cosima had sat like this for many hours, on many occasions, staring at her own distorted reflection, and not once had the ball become milky, not once had its interior clouded with prescient visions.

'Mistress . . . mistress.'

A tremulous voice was calling from the other side of the door.

Oh, that idiotic child.

'What is it, Friederike? I told you never to disturb me when I'm in here.'

The voice continued.

'Mistress. Herr Bruckmüller is here to see you.'

'Oh,' said Cosima, the tone of her voice changing from irritation to mild surprise.

'Shall I tell him to go away?'

'No,' Cosima shouted out. 'No, of course not, you foolish child. Bring him up at once.'

The maid scurried down the stairs and Cosima returned to her musings.

The police were ill-equipped to undertake such an investigation. They had equated Braun's absence with guilt. But what if he had been party to Fräulein Löwenstein's quest for power? The dark forces that had engineered the medium's extraordinary demise would be perfectly capable of spiriting away a young artist.

The rumble of Bruckmüller's basso profundo could be heard long before his heavy tread on the stairs. Why he bothered to make small talk with the servants was beyond Cosima's comprehension.

There was a soft knock on the door.

'Come in.'

The door opened and Friederike announced: 'Herr Bruckmüller.'

'Thank you, Friederike. That will be all.'

The big man smiled and advanced towards the wooden throne.

'My darling Cosima,' he bellowed. 'You look radiant.'

Cosima was at once delighted with – and embarrassed by – the compliment. She extended a chubby hand and allowed Bruckmüller to plant his lips on her dimpled knuckles. His bristly moustache was surprisingly sharp.

'Hans, my dear. Did you see the Zeitung?'

'I did. Extraordinary! Quite extraordinary!'

'She was visited by a higher power.'

'You think so?'

'Of course. The silly girl was playing with fire . . . dabbling in arts which she did not have the knowledge to practise safely.'

Bruckmüller sat on the divan and shook his head.

'It must have been terrible.'

'Indeed. It is difficult to imagine what perturbations of the soul she suffered that night. I shudder at the thought.'

Bruckmüller's expression suddenly changed: 'However . . .'

'What?' said Cosima.

'There is the matter of Braun. Where is he? Why has he absconded?'

'Has he absconded? That is what the police imply. But there could be another explanation. He might have been removed.'

'What? You mean by the same higher power?'

'I fear that the police will never have an opportunity to interview him.'

'But why?' asked Bruckmüller, his voice booming. 'Why Braun?'

'That is a question which I mean to answer,' Cosima replied, clutching her ankh and affecting an expression intended to be both alluring and mysterious. 'Very, very soon.'

LIEBERMANN PLACED HIS pen on the desk and applied a large square of blotting paper to his notebook. When he was satisfied that the ink was dry he reviewed his case summaries and placed the notebook back in the drawer. As he did so, there was a knock on the door. It was Kanner.

'Hello, Max. Can you spare a minute?'

'A minute – but not much longer. Mahler's conducting a Beethoven and Wagner programme at the Philharmonic. It starts at seven.'

'I won't keep you long,' said Kanner, taking a seat. 'Have you seen Miss Lydgate today?'

'No.'

'Max, she's had another one of those . . .' He paused for a moment before continuing: 'Fits.'

'Oh,' said Liebermann, his face creasing with concern.

'It was just like the previous fit,' continued Kanner. 'Apparently, Miss Lydgate had been well for much of the day – chatting to the nurses and reading. I was doing a round and went to say hello – and . . .' Kanner smiled apologetically and shrugged. 'I seemed to set her off again. As soon as I appeared she started to cough, and within seconds she was screaming at me . . . I just don't understand it.'

'Did her right hand—'

'Oh yes,' said Kanner, nodding vigorously. 'She threw a punch but, being better prepared this time, I managed to get out of the way. She was restrained by the porters until she calmed down.'

'Did she say anything else?'

'I don't know – I thought it best to leave. I didn't want to make the situation any worse. I understand that she fell asleep again and woke up two hours later with no recollection of what had transpired. I'm sorry, Max, I didn't mean to—'

'Please,' said Liebermann, raising a hand to silence his friend. 'It isn't your fault, Stefan.'

'Probably not, but I still feel responsible.'

Liebermann picked up his pen and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

'Oh, and there's another thing,' added Kanner. 'On Friday afternoon, Miss Lydgate was sitting with Katia Dill – you know, the young girl from Baden? Anyway, as they were talking, Katia showed Miss Lydgate her embroidery. A few seconds later Miss Lydgate became extremely agitated.'

'In what way?'

'Distracted – unable to concentrate. She might even have suffered an absence. Apparently she started mumbling something or other in English. I don't know what exactly, I wasn't there. I heard this from Sabina.'

Liebermann looked puzzled.

'Nurse Rupius,' continued Kanner. 'You know, the pretty one with the big brown eyes. Surely you must have—'

'Stefan!'

'Sorry, Max.' Kanner tried to recover some of his professional credibility before continuing. 'Perhaps you should have a word with Nurse Rupius – before you see Miss Lydgate next.'

'Yes, I'll do that.'

Liebermann looked at his wristwatch and stood up.

'I've really got to go, Stefan – and thank you.'

'Not at all.'

Liebermann opened the door to let Kanner out.

'Max?' Kanner looked uncomfortable.

'Yes.'

'Miss Lydgate is supposed to be receiving a course of electrotherapy.'

'Yes, I know.'

'What are you going to say to Professor Gruner when he demands an explanation?'

Liebermann sighed: 'I haven't really thought about it.'

'In which case,' said Kanner, resting a solicitous hand on Liebermann's shoulder, 'I think you'd better start.'

EVERYTHING IN THE concert hall seemed to have been cast from gold: the baroque ceiling, the carved friezes, and the elegant, gilded caryatids – the housing for the pipe organ – its tympanum and entablature. The effect was dazzling. A blaze of bullion.

Above the audience, massive crystal chandeliers sparkled with a restless light, and each starburst was answered by waves of coruscation below. Amid the sea of faces in the stalls an abundance of diamond brooches flashed and shimmered. The Grosser Saal was like an Aladdin's cave – scintillating with the tokens of bourgeois prosperity.

'Ah, there you are.'

Liebermann turned to see Rheinhardt negotiating – with some difficulty – the narrow aisle. 'What a rush,' he grumbled. 'I barely had time to change.' He slumped down in the seat beside Liebermann, caught his breath and, puffing a little, said, 'I've been completing my report on the second autopsy.'

Liebermann peered over the balcony.

'I was very lucky to get these seats, you know, particularly at such late notice. As far as I'm concerned, when Mahler's conducting it's not worth sitting anywhere else. You have to see his face – such humanity.'

Ignoring Liebermann's unconventional and somewhat inappropriate welcome, Rheinhardt lowered his voice and leaned closer to his friend: 'You know, I had to record that the second autopsy was initiated after seeking medical advice – that is, your advice.

However, you still haven't told me how you did it. How did you work it out?'

A group of violinists and a few members of the woodwind section emerged from the wings and wandered onto the stage.

'Oh, it really wasn't that difficult, Oskar,' said Liebermann, seemingly more interested in the musicians. 'Rosa Sucher had described changes in Fräulein Löwenstein's eating habits. Fräulein Löwenstein was also drinking less coffee and had started taking peppermint tea. Now, surely, as a father of two, you must appreciate the significance of these facts.'

Rheinhardt scratched his head.

'Cravings? Yes. When Else was carrying Mitzi I had to get up at the crack of dawn to get strawberries from the Naschmarkt. She wouldn't eat anything else for weeks! But I'm afraid the significance of the coffee and peppermint tea escapes me entirely.'

Liebermann continued to monitor the arrival of the orchestra.

'Most women find coffee less palatable in the early stages of pregnancy.'

'Do they? I can't remember Else—'

'Would you have noticed?'

'Perhaps not.'

'And as for peppermint tea – it's an old cure for morning sickness. Quite effective, too.'

Rheinhardt grunted approvingly.

'Once this information was in my possession,' continued Liebermann, 'I wondered whether Natalie Heck, being a seamstress, and therefore perhaps more observant of Fräulein Löwenstein's wardrobe, might have noticed any changes in Charlotte Löwenstein's dress. Had she, for example, purchased any new and more generously proportioned garments? Clearly, Fräulein Heck exceeded all expectations when she confessed to having altered Fräulein Löwenstein's blue silk dress herself. Subsequently, I was minded to review my earlier interpretation of that tantalising error in Fräulein Löwenstein's death-note. The meaning of He will take us to Hell became wholly transparent.'

'This also explains something else,' said Rheinhardt. 'Something I thought inconsequential at the first autopsy. Fräulein Löwenstein was not wearing a corset.'

'Indeed, to do so would have involved considerable discomfort.'

Representatives from each section of the orchestra had now made their way onto the stage, and the horn players had begun to warm their instruments with a few muted scales.

'Well,' said Rheinhardt, 'once again, I am indebted to you, Herr Doctor.'

'That remains to be seen,' said Liebermann. 'Fräulein Löwenstein's pregnancy certainly introduces a new element into our mystery. But as to its significance, who can say?'

'True. But we've made some progress. And I have a hunch that Fräulein Löwenstein's pregnancy will play some part in the unravelling of a motive for her murder.'

'Possibly,' said Liebermann. But before he could elaborate, he was distracted by a group of finely dressed men who were processing in a halting fashion up the furthest aisle of the stalls. Several were dressed in a kind of uniform – green tailcoat, black velvet cuffs, and yellow buttons. Their slow advance created a swell of agitation in the audience: the familiar impassive drone became an excited susurration. Heads turned, and some people even pointed. Every few rows, a distinguished Viennese burgher or lady would rise to greet the company.

'Oskar?' Liebermann nodded towards the back of the Grosser Saal. 'What's going on down there? Do you recognise any of those men?'

Rheinhardt rested his hands on the balcony and shifted forward.

At the centre of the group a well-groomed gentleman wearing a dark grey suit was kissing the hand of an aristocratic-looking dowager.

'Good heavens – it's the Mayor.'

'What's he doing here?' exclaimed Liebermann. 'Damned hypocrite.'

A few years earlier the Mayor had affronted Mahler by inviting a different conductor to perform at a special Philharmonic charity concert. Knowing the Mayor's politics, Liebermann realised that his motive had been quite clear. The Mayor's supporters in the anti-Semitic Reform Union would have been delighted. The orchestra's members, however, had been furious and had complained bitterly.

'Not so loud, Max.'

Liebermann snorted and folded his arms.

'And . . .' Rheinhardt's eyes narrowed. 'I don't believe it – there's Bruckmüller.'

'Who?'

'Hans Bruckmüller – remember? He attended Fräulein Löwenstein's meetings. You see that man there?' Rheinhardt pointed discreetly. 'The big chap – with the red carnation in his buttonhole.'

'Ah yes.'

'I didn't know he was one of Lueger's cronies . . .'

'Well, you do now.'

As soon as the orchestra was assembled, the first violin made a brisk entry – accompanied by much appreciative clapping. He sat down, played an 'A' for his colleagues, and a chaos of different pitches gradually coalesced and unified around his lead. Lueger and his companions were still ambling up the aisle when Gustav Mahler appeared.

The audience unleashed a storm of applause.

Mahler leaped on to the podium and made a low bow. Liebermann thought that he saw the conductor's neutral expression shadow with irritation when he caught sight of Lueger's party – who had disturbed a row of settled patrons in order to get to their centrally placed seats.

The applause gradually subsided and the house lights dimmed. Mahler turned on his heels and faced the orchestra. He did not need to consult a score because he had memorised the entire programme. Raising his baton, he paused for a moment before lunging forward, liberating the majesty of Beethoven's genius.

Slender, nervous, and agile, the conductor clutched at the cellos and basses with his right hand. Drawing out a crescendo, his clenched fist rose up and shook at the sky – like a challenge to the gods. Here was the leaping, thrashing, strangling and jerking routinely vilified by critics who abhorred the director's flamboyant style. Here were all the 'ugly excesses' that had been ridiculed by cartoonists and commentators – 'St Vitus' Dance', 'delirium tremens', 'demonic possession'. All true. Yet the Philharmonic had never sounded more powerful, or a Beethoven overture more vital. The music burst out, virile with rage and passion.

Liebermann closed his eyes and plunged into a sound-world of turmoil, torment – and incommunicable bliss.

THE LIVER PÂTÉ WAS studded with truffles and presented on a tray of ice crystals. Round loaves of brown bread were arranged in a rustic basket, and the pheasant – glazed with honey and fragrant with mixed herbs – sat in a large white dish, accompanied by green and yellow vegetables.

'You remember Cosima von Rath?'

Juno Hölderlin squinted at her husband.

How could I forget her,

he thought.

'Herr Bruckmüller's fiancée', Juno continued. 'She came to some of Fräulein Löwenstein's meetings.'

'Yes,' said Hölderlin. 'A very striking woman, as I recall.'

Hölderlin untied his serviette, flapped it in the air, and placed it carefully on his lap.

'She telephoned today.'

'Really? What did she want?'

'She's arranging a circle.'

'My dear, another one?' Hölderlin's expression indicated extreme discomfort. 'Hasn't your appetite for the supernatural been tempered by recent events?'

'She wasn't suggesting we form a new circle to replace Fräulein Löwenstein's. No, Heinrich. She was suggesting an investigative sitting . . . a seance, the purpose of which would be to find out what really happened that night.'

'She means to contact Fräulein Löwenstein?'

Juno Hölderlin sliced the pâté and scraped a moist wedge onto the side of her plate.

'I imagine so. She also wishes to discover the whereabouts of Herr Braun.'

Juno's rate of blinking accelerated, until finally she squeezed her eyelids together in an effort to rid herself of the tic.

'Who else has she invited?'

'Herr Uberhorst, Fräulein Heck – all of them.'

'And they've agreed to attend?'

'As far as I know. Although Fräulein von Rath had still not been able to contact Count Záborszky when we spoke.'

'Do you . . . do you want to go?'

Juno looked down at her plate and was momentarily distracted by the beauty of the blue and gold surround. The china had been a wedding gift from Sieglinde.

'If it will help – then of course.'

Hölderlin sipped his wine.

'Very well,' he said. 'We shall go.'

'IT WASN'T A particularly warm day – quite cold, in fact – but Herr Schelling insisted that we should go. I asked Frau Schelling if she wanted her coat; however, she said that wouldn't be necessary – she wouldn't be joining us.'

Miss Lydgate's eyes shifted rapidly beneath closed lids and her words slurred under the influence of hypnotic sleep.

'Something passed between them,' she continued. 'Herr Schelling and Frau Schelling: a look, an odd look. Then Frau Schelling said: I must go now – enjoy the woods, Miss Lydgate. They are very beautiful at this time of year. And then she left the room. Very quickly, as though . . . as though she was running away.'

'From what?' asked Liebermann.

'I don't know.' Miss Lydgate coughed. 'The carriage took us through the city and out past Unterdöbling and Oberdöbling. Herr Schelling told me that Beethoven had once lived there – it was where he had written his third symphony. Beethoven had originally dedicated the work to Napoleon, but on receiving news that the First Consul had crowned himself Emperor the great composer became enraged and tore up the dedication. I knew this story already as my father had told me something very similar, but I thought it rude to interrupt. Herr Schelling asked me if I enjoyed music. I said that I did, but confessed to not being very knowledgeable. Herr Schelling then said that I must permit him to take me to a concert. I thanked him, feeling that I did not deserve such kindness. He said that it was his pleasure, and placed a hand on my arm . . .' Miss Lydgate's head rocked from side to side in its nest of flaming hair.

In the distance a church bell started to toll, slow and funereal.

'Herr Schelling did not remove his hand and moved a little closer. I didn't know what to do. It seemed improper. Yet Herr Schelling was not a stranger. He was a relative – my mother's cousin. Perhaps it was permissible for him to rest his hand on my arm. So I did nothing . . . and I fear . . . I fear I was mistaken. I fear that I may have been responsible for a misunderstanding.'

Liebermann studied his supine patient. She looked relatively calm. After a long pause, she spontaneously resumed her narrative.

'Even though the day was somewhat overcast, the woods were no less beautiful. I was fascinated by the flora – but Herr Schelling urged me not to stray from the path.

There are still bears in this wood, he said. But I did not believe him. He was smiling, and showing no concern for his own safety. We climbed up a narrow, steep incline until we reached a viewing point. There we paused to admire the vista. Herr Schelling pointed out some villages on the lower slopes, and a vineyard. He was standing directly behind me. He traced an arc in the air with his forefinger – up and over the mountains.

They're the Alps, he said. I took a step forward – and he followed. I could feel his body pressing up against me – and then – and then . . .'

Miss Lydgate's chest heaved and her breathing accelerated. Yet she continued to tell her story calmly and slowly.

'I felt his lips. They touched the back of my neck. I shivered with disgust and turned around. He was looking at me with a strange, fiery look in his eyes. He grabbed my arms and pulled me towards him. I thought he had gone mad. He said my name – twice – and buried his face in my shoulder. Again I felt his lips – moistness on the side of my neck. I wrested myself free of his embrace and took a few steps backwards. I was close to the edge of a precipice. The drop was sudden and for one terrible moment I thought Herr Schelling meant to push me over. But the fire in his eyes suddenly went out. He straightened his necktie and combed his hair back with his hands. He assumed a solicitous expression, Whatever is the matter? he said. I was angry and confused.

Herr Schelling, you must not do that again, I said.

Do what again? he replied. Such was his apparent sincerity that I began to question the evidence of my own senses. Had I misinterpreted his behaviour? He extended his hand.

Come, Amelia, he said, let us walk back to the carriage. I didn't take his hand. Herr Schelling raised his eyebrows, and said, Very well, if you feel that you can manage the downward path without my assistance. He let his hand fall and he turned, at once setting off down the path. I paused for a moment and was not sure what to do. In the absence of any alternative, I reluctantly followed. We completed most of the return journey in silence. Occasionally he would urge me to watch my step where he thought the path might be dangerous – it was uneven in places and pitted with potholes. On the way down we passed some walkers coming up in the opposite direction. They greeted us, and Herr Schelling bid them a hearty good afternoon. It was all so . . . ordinary. I whispered good day, and straggled along behind Herr Schelling. I felt . . . I felt like a child in disgrace. As we descended, it seemed to me less and less likely that Herr Schelling had actually behaved improperly, and more and more likely that I had – I don't know.'

'More and more likely that you had what?' asked Liebermann.

'Overreacted. Behaved . . .' She paused before adding, 'Hysterically.'

Amelia Lydgate's body remained completely still, although her breathing was still slightly agitated.

'We managed a stilted conversation in the carriage back to Rennweg. But it felt deeply uncomfortable. We were greeted by Frau Schelling, who claimed that the walk had brought colour to my cheeks. I mumbled a polite answer, but said that I was in fact feeling unwell.

The air, replied Frau Schelling.

Perhaps it was too damp. You may have caught a chill.

I ran upstairs to my room and sat at my dressing table. I looked at myself in the mirror and noticed that I was trembling. A few minutes later there was a knock on the door. It was Frau Schelling. She asked me if I wanted some tea. I said that I didn't want any. I said that I needed to rest for a while and that I was already feeling a little better.

Very well, she said, and left me alone.

'Over the next few weeks, as I went about my daily business, I frequently discovered myself the object of Herr Schelling's unwelcome attention. I would catch him looking at me in that way. One evening, I was sitting with the Schellings in the sitting room, reading my book. Frau Schelling excused herself, and I became conscious of an oppressive atmosphere. It was as though the room had filled with a cloying, heavy scent – like that of some overripe fruit.' Miss Lydgate's shoulders shook as she coughed. 'I looked up to see Herr Schelling smiling at me. It was an extremely disagreeable smile. I felt like . . . I felt . . . it is difficult to express.' Suddenly, articulating her words with greater certainty, she said: 'I felt exposed.

'Herr Schelling made some trivial remarks, and then came and sat next to me on the settee. He sat very close. His leg was pressed against mine. I tried to move away, but I was trapped between Herr Schelling and the arm of the chair. He took my hand – I tried to pull it away but he squeezed it more tightly.

Amelia, he said, you know I am very fond of you. Again, I didn't know what to do. I simply stared at him – aghast. His face came towards me and I got up. Twisting my hand from his grip, I rushed to the door.

Amelia? he called. Are you all right?

I opened the door and shut it firmly behind me. Looking up, I noticed that Frau Schelling was on the landing. I formed the impression that she had just been standing there since excusing herself. She looked down at me, saying nothing. I cannot describe the look in her eyes. But she seemed (is this possible?) triumphant. Eventually, she spoke:

I am retiring for the evening. Good night, my dear. Then she turned and stepped into the shadows.

'I became very unhappy, even frightened. So much so that I contemplated returning to England – but then I baulked at the thought of what this would ultimately entail. What could I say to my parents? My mother had spoken so warmly of the Schellings. Indeed, she had corresponded with Herr Schelling since they were both children. He was a kind, generous man . . . I knew, I suppose, in my heart, that he had behaved improperly, but I still felt that I might be – in some way – mistaken. I still felt that if I accused him, or spoke to Frau Schelling, or to anyone, I would find myself looking foolish. It was unbelievable, that a man like Herr Schelling would find someone like me . . . would desire . . .' Her sentences fragmented and were finally smothered by a deep, melancholy sigh.

'Miss Lydgate,' said Liebermann, very softly. 'Can you remember the next time that Herr Schelling behaved improperly?'

The young woman's eyes trembled beneath their lids again and her head moved – ever so slightly – up and down: 'I had gone to bed quite early – where I read a little and completed some needlepoint. A design of my own, based on an illustration I had discovered in Rumphius's Herbarium Amboinense.' Liebermann assumed that the volume in question was some venerable work of botanical scholarship. 'I tried to get to sleep,' Miss Lydgate continued, 'but without success. A storm had started. The rain was incessant and the thunder very loud. So, I lay awake – thinking. It must have been in the early hours of the morning when I heard the sound of a cab stopping outside. It was Herr Schelling returning from a late sitting at the parliament building. Well, at least, that's where he'd said, during dinner, he was going.' As she said these words, Amelia Lydgate's brow tensed, as though merely questioning her employer's honesty was the cause of considerable discomfort.

'I heard him stumble in the hallway. Then there was some cursing. Then he started to climb the stairs: slow, heavy footsteps. I was expecting him to stop on the landing below but he continued his ascent. I felt sick, and was overcome with a terrible sense of foreboding. I could hear him approaching my room. As he came nearer, I was aware that he was trying to tread with greater care, but the floorboards were old and they creaked. There was a knock on the door. I did not answer. Then I heard the sound of the handle turning. I had, of course, locked the door. I had deposited the key safely in the lower drawer of my bedside cabinet. Herr Schelling persisted, turning the handle and then shaking it quite loudly. He called out my name.

Amelia, Amelia.

My heart was thumping in my ears and chest – I gripped the bed sheets and hoped that Frau Schelling would wake.

Amelia, Amelia. Let me in. I need to tell you something.

I wanted to shout out, Go away, go away. Please leave me alone, but I couldn't. The words caught in my throat. Instead, I just lay there in the darkness, consumed with terror. After some time – possibly only minutes, but it seemed like an eternity – Herr Schelling abandoned his efforts to gain entry into my room, and I heard him walk away. However, he did not go downstairs as I had assumed he would. He went up to the third floor.

'There was no point in trying to sleep – I was too distressed. I sat up, and stared at the window. The curtains were not fully drawn, and I was able to calm my mind by counting the seconds between lightning flashes. Eventually my nervous agitation subsided, and I was able to consider my predicament with greater self-possession. After much deliberation, I concluded that my position in the Schelling household was untenable. I decided that I would leave Vienna at the earliest opportunity.'

The trance state had rendered Amelia Lydgate's expression largely impassive – yet occasionally the ghost of an emotion would surface before evaporating. Now her features became troubled by a more tenacious melancholy.

'This realisation – that I must leave Vienna – filled me with a terrible sadness that was more like despair. I would have to relinquish all my dreams – of working with Doctor Landsteiner, of acquiring sufficient knowledge to edit my grandfather's journals. All my plans, all my aspirations would come to nothing. I wept bitterly. Although I was wholly absorbed in my own misery, the shock of hearing Herr Schelling descending the stairs again brought me quickly to my senses. He came directly to my room. There was no knocking, no calling. I heard the sound of a key in the lock and the bolt turning. The door quickly opened and closed – and he was in.

'I was stunned. I could barely believe what had happened. Yet I had to believe it for I could hear his breathing – a horrible, ragged sound. There was a flash of lightning, and the impression of his presence was confirmed. I saw him standing close, like some terrible visitation in a nightmare. The mattress tilted as he crawled onto the bed.

Amelia, he whispered. Amelia. I was paralysed, unable to move. I felt the weight of his body on mine, and his lips on my face. His moustache was rough and scratched my cheeks. Then his lips pressed up against mine. I could not breathe . . . I could not breathe . . . I was choking, and started to—'

Miss Lydgate's chest heaved. She raised her left arm. It was a sluggish, lymphatic movement, like that of weeds caught in a languid stream. She stifled a cough – and tried to continue.

'It was . . .' She coughed again. 'It was . . .'

Suddenly her eyes flicked open – like those of a doll. They were unnaturally wide and staring. Her pewter irises moved from left to right, examining the ceiling, before dipping to examine what lay beyond her toes. Then, with unexpected fluidity, Amelia Lydgate slid her legs off the side of the bed and sat up – supporting herself with both arms. Liebermann noticed that the fingers of her right hand were gripping the bedstead as tightly as were those of her left. The hospital gown had slipped from her shoulder, revealing an area of pale flesh and the nascent curve of a small breast. There was something wholly different about her attitude – something casual, almost slovenly in her appearance. A curtain of hair fell across her face. She made no effort to brush it away. Yet Liebermann could still see Miss Lydgate's eyes, glowing behind the russet strands with a dull metallic light. She was staring at him – a fixed, forensic stare.

Liebermann had not instructed her to wake, and even if he had it was customary for hypnotic subjects simply to open their eyes and remain still. Amelia Lydgate had acted spontaneously, opening her eyes and sitting up in the absence of a command. Liebermann wasn't altogether sure what was happening. Before he could make a decision, she spoke: 'Who are you?'

Her voice was less hesitant than usual. Moreover, she had asked the question in English.

'I am your doctor,' he replied – in German.

Liebermann could see that she didn't understand him.

'I said – who are you?' She articulated each syllable with deliberate emphasis, as though talking to a stupid child.

Liebermann edged his seat back and responded again, this time in English.

'My name is Doctor Liebermann. Who are you?'

'Me?' Amelia Lydgate looked down at her feet and swung them backwards and forwards. Then, looking up, she brushed the hair from her face with her right hand, revealing a manic grin. 'My name is Katherine.'

THE OPEN-AIR CONCERT platform was situated near the Prohaska restaurant. Karl Uberhorst was seated a few rows from the front, enjoying a programme of popular pieces performed by the Ladies' String Orchestra of Vienna – a small ensemble of only nine players. Uberhorst was not a great music lover. He recognised the famous works by Strauss and Lanner but little else. He was not there for the music but for the leader of the orchestra, Fräulein Zöchling.

She was not as attractive as Fräulein Löwenstein, but nevertheless, there was something about her that Uberhorst found beguiling: her proud, almost defiant posturing – the way her torso swung backwards and forwards as she bounced the bow on the violin strings.

He had chanced upon the Ladies' String Orchestra while walking in the Prater a few days earlier and had felt compelled to return. It was like being granted a preview of heaven. The women, in high necked white dresses and gold sashes, looked like angels. At one point, Fräulein Zöchling had glanced directly into his eyes. The intensity of her gaze had been too much, and he had looked away – confused and ashamed.

The orchestra came to the end of Fruhlingsstimmen and the air crackled with applause. Fräulein Zöchling bowed and encouraged her colleagues to stand. Uberhorst noticed that all of the women wore their hair up, tied back with an identical yellow bow.

Their beauty tormented him – as hers had.

Why had Fräulein Löwenstein chosen to trust him with her secret?

Why not any of the others?

It was his duty to protect her honour – but at the same time, the information in his possession might be of considerable interest to the police. In addition, being truthful with them might free him from suspicion. Yet even contemplating this course of action felt like a terrible betrayal. Perhaps he would discover what to do at the seance? On the other hand, perhaps he should continue to experiment with the locks . . .

Fräulein Zöchling's orchestra sat down again as the applause gradually died away. Immediately, Fräulein Zöchling herself raised her violin, glanced at her fellow musicians and launched into a hectic polka.

Uberhorst found that he could no longer enjoy the concert. His lungs laboured to fill his ribcage and a patina of sweat coated his forehead. He felt dizzy with anxiety.

'Excuse me,' he whispered.

Fortunately he was only three seats from the end of the row and was able to leave without causing any disruption. He rushed away, gasping for air in the lilac-scented breeze.

When he was away from the crowds he stopped and looked back. The heavenly orchestra was still playing beneath the proscenium arch and, beyond, the Riesenrad was a black silhouette against the white sky.

THE FACTORY YARD was an expanse of damp gravel, strewn with empty crates and abandoned pushcarts. Above Haussmann and Rheinhardt's heads, the moribund sky, a canopy of charcoal and pepper clouds, was made even more oppressive by a plume of black smoke streaming from a tall chimney. The factory itself was long, low, and built of dirty yellow bricks. A single line of small, blind windows perforated an otherwise featureless block; however, at the nearest end of the building, two large wooden doors had been left open. Through them came the relentless clang and clatter of heavy machinery.

'There he is,' said Haussmann.

Leaning up against the wall and smoking a cigarette was a scrawny man in overalls. He was talking to two similarly dressed companions who – on seeing the two policemen – hurried into the building.

'How did we find him?' asked Rheinhardt.

'Through Tibor Király.'

'Who?'

'One of those magicians we consulted at the Volksprater.'

'The Great Magnifico?'

'No – that was Adolphus Farber. Király was Chan the Inscrutable.'

The scrawny man threw his cigarette on to the ground and stubbed it out with his boot. Then he wiped his hands on his overalls and stood up straight. There was something unexpected about his attitude – the way he pushed out his chest and straightened his back. Rheinhardt thought he looked rather haughty. This impression only strengthened as they drew closer.

'Good morning, Herr Roche,' said Haussmann.

'Good morning, my dear fellow,' said the man in a dry, refined accent.

'Detective Inspector Rheinhardt,' said Haussmann, gesturing deferentially towards his chief.

Rheinhardt bowed.

'Thank you so much for helping us, Herr Roche.'

Roche wiped his hands on his overalls again before giving them a cursory inspection.

'I am afraid that we shall have to forgo the usual courtesies,' said Roche, displaying his grubby palms.

'Is there perhaps somewhere we could sit, Herr Roche? It's rather loud here,' said Rheinhardt.

'It's a lot worse inside. I would recommend that we use some of those boxes over there.' Roche pointed across the yard. 'Not very comfortable, but they will serve our purpose.'

The three men walked over to a collection of crates by the main entrance, where they improvised some seating. Rheinhardt noticed that the ground was littered with spent rifle shells.

Before Rheinhardt could ask his first question, Roche said: 'You know, she had it coming to her. She deserved to die.'

Rheinhardt looked into Roche's eyes, and was shocked to see his crows-feet wrinkling with pleasure. Ignoring the man's curious opening gambit, Rheinhardt said, 'Herr Roche, could you explain how you came to know Fräulein Löwenstein?'

'She was my assistant,' replied Roche. Then, recognising that Rheinhardt was waiting for him to elaborate, he added: 'I didn't always work in that hell-hole, you know.' He thumbed over his shoulder in the direction of the factory. 'I used to be in the theatre. The

Blue Danube – do you remember it?'

Rheinhardt shook his head.

'Small place on Dampfschiffstrasse?' Roche persisted hopefully.

'I'm sorry,' said Rheinhardt, shaking his head again.

'Well, I used to manage it,' Roche sighed. 'And I'd still be managing it today, if it wasn't for . . .' He paused for a moment before adding, 'That woman' – each syllable was costive and contemptuous. 'Of course, she was never an official employee – there was no contract. Nevertheless, she performed all of the duties expected of an assistant manager.'

'Why wasn't her appointment official?'

'Unfortunately,' said Roche, 'I permitted her to become involved without notifying the proprietor.'

'Any reason?'

Roche took a small tin from his overalls and opened the lid. Inside, were three thinly rolled cigarettes. He half-heartedly offered them to Rheinhardt and Haussmann, but showed palpable signs of relief when they refused.

'Please, allow me.' Rheinhardt struck a match and lit Roche's cigarette.

'The proprietor would have objected,' said Roche. 'She had no experience of management – she was an actress.'

'Then why did you appoint her?'

'We were lovers,' said Roche, 'and I trusted her.' He drew on his cigarette and blew twin streams of smoke from his nostrils. 'In retrospect, I was foolish. But I really thought she could be trusted.'

'How did you meet?'

'She was with a provincial touring company – not a very good one, I might add – who had decided to try their luck in the capital. As you can imagine, the reviews were terrible, although Schnabel said some complimentary things about her in particular. Something like: What she lacks in talent is amply compensated for by her stage presence and her beauty. I forget exactly what now, but something to that effect. After the terrible reviews there was a lot of bad feeling – accusations and counter-accusations. The upshot of which was that the company finished their execrable run at The Danube and then immediately disbanded. She – Charlotte – came crying to my door and . . . Well, you know how it is, Inspector, you're a man of the world – things happen.'

Rheinhardt nodded sagely.

'She said that she didn't want my charity,' continued Roche. 'She was very insistent – said that she would rather leave Vienna than be a burden to me. So I gave her a few jobs – here and there – and it must have built up. She did more and more, and I suppose I got used to doing less and less. Then, one morning, she vanished. Just like that.' Roche clicked his fingers. 'All of her things were still in the apartment, but she was gone. When I got to my office, I discovered that the safe had been emptied. Worse still, it turned out that the accounts were completely inaccurate. The record of our box-office takings meant nothing. As you can imagine, the proprietor was not amused. I was blamed for everything.'

'Had you given her the combination of the safe?'

'No, but I'd opened it in her presence on many occasions. She was obviously far more observant than I'd thought.'

'Did you try to find her?'

'Yes, of course – but it was too late. She'd already left Vienna.'

'On her own?'

'No, I don't think so. Later I discovered that she'd been having an affair with a stage magician – right under my nose. Braun, I think his name was. He'd taken part in a few of The Danube's summer shows (never popular, everyone having gone off, of course). I imagine that they must have run away together.'

A few spots of rain speckled Roche's overalls and he looked up at the grim sky.

'You had no idea that Fräulein Löwenstein had returned to Vienna?' asked Rheinhardt.

Roche shook his head.

'No idea at all. Had I known, Inspector, you would undoubtedly have had the pleasure of charging me with her murder.'

LIEBERMANN'S MIND RACED as he tried to make sense of the curious transformation he had just observed. Miss Amelia Lydgate – in the person of Katherine – was still staring at him. She did not seem to present any immediate physical threat, but he knew well enough that the emergence of a secondary personality was a rare and unpredictable phenomenon: an occurrence that merited caution and a healthy respect for the complexities of human mental life.

Liebermann and 'Katherine' retained their respective positions for some time. The silence curdled, thickening slowly with disturbing possibilities. Still floundering a little, Liebermann began to rehearse some English in his head. The task steadied his nerves, providing him with a necessary focus.

'Where is Amelia?' he asked.

'She's asleep.' Even the timbre of Miss Lydgate's voice was strangely altered. She seemed to be speaking in a slightly higher register.

'Does she know that you are here?'

'No – she's asleep.'

It occurred to Liebermann that Amelia Lydgate's secondary personality might be that of a child.

'How old are you ?' he asked.

'Not as old as Amelia.'

'Yes – but how old are you?'

Katherine lifted her chin and said in a voice that was presumably supposed to create an impression of superiority: 'Doctor Liebermann, were you never told that it is impolite to ask a woman her age?' So saying, she pushed herself off the bed and landed squarely on the floor, her bare feet slapping against the tiles. Then she straightened her gown, pressing her palms against her waist and sliding them down over her hips. This stretched the cotton, emphasising the curves of her body. Though the movement might have been meant to be seductive, Liebermann recognised that there was still something very childish about the young woman's posturing. It reminded him of the half-innocent, half-knowing behaviour of girls on the cusp of pubescence: a natural, almost unconscious flirtation.

She took a step forward. Then, holding her gown at the hip, she raised it a little and stood on her toes. It was a curious, balletic movement – presumably meant to be some kind of parody of elegance.

'Do you think me pretty, Doctor Liebermann?'

Liebermann coughed uncomfortably, which reminded him that since Katherine's arrival, Miss Lydgate – or at least her dormant personality – had not coughed once.

Katherine tilted her head, clearly expecting an answer.

Liebermann swallowed before delivering his careful judgement: 'Yes.'

Satisfied but unsmiling, Katherine looked towards the door.

'Where is your friend?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Yellow hair, blue eyes – and . . .'

'I think you mean Doctor Kanner.'

Katherine did not respond. Instead, she walked towards the sink where – on catching sight of herself in the mirror – she paused to arrange her hair. Piling it up with both hands, she turned her head this way and that to study the effect from several different angles. Dissatisfied, she frowned and let it tumble down again, a cascade of burnished copper.

'I don't like him,' she said bluntly.

'Why not?'

'You are very inquisitive, Doctor Liebermann.'

Trailing her hand around the porcelain bowl, Katherine moved towards the table.

'What is this?'

'A battery.'

Katherine released the hasp and opened the box. After examining the contents, she closed the lid again.

'How is your arm?' Liebermann asked.

Katherine raised her right hand, causing the sleeve of her gown to fall and collect in folds around her shoulder. Then she examined her elbow and wrist.

'There is nothing wrong with my arm,' she replied. Then, turning, she walked back to the bed.

Pushing both palms on the mattress, Katherine lifted herself up. She manoeuvred herself into a sitting position and resumed swinging her legs. Suddenly her expression became quite vacant. It was as though, having performed a limited repertoire of actions, she was now in a state of suspension, waiting for the next cue or prompt.

Liebermann wondered whether Katherine would respond to a command. In all likelihood, 'Katherine' would not be a fully developed personality but merely a part of Miss Lydgate's mind that had become separated, achieving a degree of independence. Amelia Lydgate was still in a trance state. Therefore Liebermann deduced that Katherine might still be susceptible to hypnotic suggestion. Recovering some of his former authority, he said firmly: 'Lie down, Katherine.'

For a second or two, Katherine remained still. Then she swung her legs up and around before lying back. Liebermann sighed with relief.

'Amelia was telling me about what happened when Herr Schelling came into her room,' said Liebermann.

'Was she?'

'Yes. Were you there that night?'

'Of course I was.'

'Did you see Herr Schelling come into the room?'

'It was very dark.'

'What can you remember?'

Katherine's nose wrinkled and her mouth twisted.

'It was disgusting.'

'What was?'

'That horrible moustache – the scratching. His face was like a pumice stone. Amelia was terrified. She should have pushed him off, but she did nothing. Her heart was pounding so loud that I could hear it.' She tapped the bedstead, imitating the frantic, limping beat of a fearful heart. 'He was slavering like a dog – and grabbing, grabbing, grabbing . . .'

Katherine fell silent.

'What happened next?' asked Liebermann.

'There was a flash of lightning,' Katherine continued. 'I saw the embroidery basket and the scissors. He was so lost in his slavering and grabbing that it was easy to reach out.

Kill him, I said. Pick up the scissors and stab him in the back.

But Amelia did not move. I heard her say No – I can't.

I urged her: Come on, you must. She said again, I can't. Her arm wouldn't move. So I said, Very well, I'll do it if you won't. I picked up the scissors, but Herr Schelling moved. Lightning, another flash. He was kneeling, looking down at me. Then darkness – but the picture stayed in my mind. A silhouette-head, shoulders – the curled ends of his moustache. I sat up, and thrust out with the scissors . . . I heard him gasp. I could feel some resistance and I pushed harder. He cursed – the mattress bounced as he changed position – and then he fell off the bed. There was a tremendous crash and more cursing. The door opened and then slammed shut and . . . and he was gone. I put the scissors back in the basket and pulled the blanket up to my neck. Outside the rain was falling. I could hear it drumming on the roof and splashing on the pavement below. Suddenly I felt weak. Tired and exhausted.' Katherine yawned and covered her mouth.

'Are you tired now?'

'A little . . .'

'Then sleep,' said Liebermann. 'You are safe here, Katherine. Let your eyes close, and you will fall asleep very soon.'

Katherine's eyelids trembled, and within moments her breathing became stertorous. Liebermann sat perfectly still, watching his slumbering patient.

'Doctor Liebermann?'

His shoulders jerked back with surprise.

Amelia Lydgate's eyes had opened again.

'Doctor Liebermann,' she continued. 'Could I have a glass of water, please? I am very thirsty.'

She was speaking in German.

THE THIRD RECEPTION room of the von Rath residence was supposed to be more intimate than the first and second, but it was still immense by ordinary standards. The ceiling was decorated with an awesome painting in the classical style, which showed pipe-playing rustics cavorting with nymphs below a powder-blue sky. At both ends of the room were fireplaces of red marble supporting high, gilded French mirrors, and the walls were hung with old Gobelin tapestries. By a long row of shuttered windows busts of ancient philosophers and gods, mounted on malachite plinths, stared at the company with opaque and sightless eyes.

Bruckmüller lit a tree of candles and placed the stand behind his fiancée. He then signalled to Hölderlin who extinguished the gaslights. The room instantly shrank, its centre becoming a sphere of hazy luminosity in a vast enveloping darkness.

When both men had returned to the table, Cosima von Rath examined her guests. It had been several months since she had last attended Fräulein Löwenstein's circle, but none of those present looked any different – except for the Count, perhaps, whose conspicuously swollen eye was studiously ignored by everyone.

To her immediate left sat Bruckmüller, then Uberhorst – nervously locking and unlocking his delicate little fingers – then the Count and, directly opposite, Natalie Heck – whose wide-open eyes had become as black as cinder pits. To Cosima's right sat the Hölderlins: first Juno, blinking into the candlelight, and then Heinrich, his face set in an attitude of solemnity. Braun, the handsome young artist, was a notable absentee.

Cosima's ample figure cast a mountainous shadow across the polished surface of the round table. The letters of the alphabet and every number from zero to nine – all in Gothic script – were arranged in twin arcs on glazed tiles. Beneath these were four larger tiles on which could be read the words Yes, No, Possibly and Goodbye. In the centre of this arrangement was the planchette – a heart-shaped piece of wood mounted on three small castor wheels.

'Are we ready?'

The company whispered their assent.

'Then let us begin.'

Cosima rested a fat finger on the planchette, an action that was repeated by each of the company in turn.

'We are gathered here this evening to discover the fate of our friends Charlotte Löwenstein and Otto Braun. If there is a kindly spirit present who can assist us in our quest, please make yourself known.'

The planchette did not move.

Cosima's ample bosom rose and fell as she sighed. A precious stone flashed on her ankh.

'In the name of Isis and Osiris, Adonay, Elohim, Ariel, and Jehovam we humbly beg you, great spirits, who are in possession of the most priceless Treasure of the Light. Please assist us.'

A suffocating silence followed.

'None of us have the power,' said Záborszky, with characteristic bluntness.

'My dear Count,' said Cosima, turning her flat, round face towards the eccentric aristocrat, 'None of us have Fräulein Löwenstein's special gift. Yet—'

'We need a clairvoyant,' he cut in. 'A proper one.'

'If we are sincere in our wishes,' said Cosima, ignoring Záborszky's interruption, 'then the spirits will help us.' Looking around at the assembly she added: 'Please, we must all concentrate. Think of Fräulein Löwenstein, and open your hearts to the influence of the higher powers. Come, blessed spirits, come . . .' The pitch of her voice climbed and wobbled with an emotional vibrato. 'Come spirits, come . . .'

The planchette flinched, darting an inch or so from its central position.

Natalie Heck gasped and threw a sidelong glance in the direction of Count Záborszky.

'There, you see!' cried Cosima reproachfully. 'They are here . . . the spirits have arrived.'

The Count seemed indifferent.

'Who are you?' continued Cosima. 'Who are you, oh Spirit, who has answered our call?'

The planchette moved in small circles before flying towards the first arc of letters. The narrow end of the wooden heart, which served as a pointer, stopped abruptly below the letter F. After a brief pause, the planchette visited the letters L-O-R-E-S-T-A and finally N.

'Florestan,' said Cosima, beaming with satisfaction. 'Greetings, Florestan, you who are now in possession of the Treasure of the Light. What was your profession, Florestan, when you were incarnate?'

The planchette spelt out: KAPELLMEISTER.

'Where?'

SALZBURG.

'And when did you leave the realm of material things?'

1791.

'Will you help us, Florestan?'

YES.

'Blessed Spirit – it has been two weeks since our dear sister Charlotte Löwenstein left this world. Does she wish to communicate with us?'

The planchette did not move.

'Does she have a message for us?'

Nothing.

'Can we speak to her?'

Still there was no movement.

Záborszky sniffed and said quietly: 'This Florestan is too feeble. We must summon a more potent spirit.'

'Dearest Count,' said Cosima, forcing a smile, 'we must show respect to all emissaries from the world of light.'

Frau Hölderlin, who was sitting next to Cosima, turned and whispered sharply: 'Ask again.'

'Florestan,' Cosima called, her voice still quivering, 'does Charlotte Löwenstein wish to communicate with us?'

Silence.

'Ask him what happened,' hissed Frau Hölderlin. 'Ask him what happened to her?'

'Was Charlotte Löwenstein taken by –' Cosima ventured tentatively '– a higher power?'

The planchette rolled around the table and halted close to where it had begun.

YES.

'Of the first altitude?'

NO.

'The second?'

NO.

'The third?' Incredulity had transformed Cosima von Rath's soprano into an unfeasibly high squeal.

The planchette rolled across the table to the adjacent tile.

YES.

The company began to whisper among themselves.

'But why?' Cosima wailed.

The whispering subsided and the planchette rolled towards the letters where it spelt out: SIN.

'Which sin?'

VANITY.

Cosima, her plump neck vibrating with excitement, asked: 'Did she attempt to make a higher power do her bidding?'

YES.

'For what purpose?'

The planchette failed to respond and a tidal silence washed back into the room.

'What was her purpose?' Cosima repeated.

The planchette remained resolutely still.

'Where is she?' Cosima continued. 'Where was she taken?'

Nothing.

'What about Otto?' said Natalie Heck. 'Ask what happened to Otto.'

Cosima acknowledged the request by inclining her head.

'Florestan – where is Herr Braun?'

Again, nothing.

'Was Herr Braun taken too?'

The planchette stirred and rolled gently towards an answer: NO.

'Is he still alive?'

The wooden heart rolled in several wide circles and ground to a halt on an empty patch of table, giving no discernible answer.

Uberhorst coughed to attract attention and said hesitantly: 'Please . . . I would like to ask a question.'

'Of course,' Cosima replied.

'I want to know if . . . if I should tell them?'

'Tell them? Tell who?'

'It is . . .' Uberhorst paused and then added: 'A private matter.'

'My dear fellow.' It was Bruckmüller, and his resonant voice seemed to shake the table. 'You are among friends!'

The little locksmith's pince-nez caught the light. His eyes were two ovals of flickering flame.

'It is a private matter, Herr Bruckmüller.'

The Count – who was seated next to Uberhorst – addressed him as though no one else was present. His tone was casual.

'She told you something? Fräulein Löwenstein?'

The locksmith searched the ring of faces for a sympathetic expression but was unable to find one.

'Herr Uberhorst,' said Cosima, 'if you want an answer to your question you must cooperate with the circle. We must assist the spirit Florestan with one will. This cannot be accomplished if you are guarding some secret.'

'Do you mean the police, Uberhorst?' said Hölderlin. 'Is that who you mean by them?'

Uberhorst took his hand off the planchette and began biting his nails.

'Please, all I want is . . .' The words were indistinct. 'All I want is a simple answer.' His panic was barely controlled. 'A Yes – or a No.'

The planchette moved, spiralling outwards and moving faster until it stopped abruptly among the letters.

TELL WHO?

'See,' said Bruckmüller, 'the spirit needs clarification, Uberhorst.'

'It is a matter of honour' Herr Bruckmüller, I cannot say any more.'

WHO? the planchette demanded.

'Herr Uberhorst,' said Cosima, 'Please do not deny the spirit emissary.'

Uberhorst shook his head.

'Very well, Herr Uberhorst,' Cosima continued. 'I will try on your behalf, but I do not believe that we shall meet with much success. Florestan, spirit, possessor of the Treasure of the Light: should Herr Uberhorst tell—' she paused, and raised her eyebrows. '

Them?'

Uberhorst placed his finger back on the planchette.

The device remained perfectly still.

'There you are,' said Cosima. 'I thought as much.'

The company looked towards Uberhorst. He was staring at the planchette – his gaze transfixed on the wooden heart.

'This is not right,' he said softly.

'What do you mean?' asked Cosima. 'Not right?'

'I cannot believe . . .' Uberhorst's voice was torpid, as though he was talking through a dream. 'I cannot believe that Fräulein Löwenstein was taken – removed – by some demon. She was too good a person. Too kind.'

'To you, perhaps,' said Natalie under her breath. Uberhorst looked up. He could not see the seamstress's face very well, only the large glass earring dangling from her ear.

'Herr Uberhorst,' said Frau Hölderlin, 'the spirit says that Fräulein Löwenstein was guilty of the sin of vanity. And much as I admired her, much as I was impressed by her gift—'

'She was a very vain woman,' said Natalie, helping Frau Hölderlin's sentence to its inevitable conclusion.

'But undeniably very beautiful,' said Záborszky.

'Indeed,' said Hölderlin. 'However, we must remember that possession of physical beauty can easily weaken the moral faculty. Is it not generally the case that those whom we call beautiful are also peculiarly vulnerable to the sins of pride and vanity?'

'I'm surprised to hear you say that, Hölderlin,' said Záborszky.

'Why?' Hölderlin snapped back at him.

'You seemed to appreciate her beauty as much as the next man.'

'What on Earth do you mean by tha—'

'Gentlemen!' Cosima von Rath's voice was shrill and angry.

'Here, here,' barked Bruckmüller.

'Gentlemen, please!' Cosima blew out her cheeks and her retroussé nose, squeezed between bulging flesh, looked alarmingly like a snout. 'We must proceed.'

Frau Hölderlin squinted at her husband whose pate glittered with tiny beads of perspiration.

'Florestan,' Cosima cried. 'Florestan, is there anything we can do to help our departed sister Charlotte?'

The planchette rolled around the table top and stopped abruptly.

NO.

'Shall we pray for her salvation?'

The planchette traced another circle.

NO.

'Then what shall we do?'

Rolling from side to side, the planchette hovered in the noncommittal spaces of the table top before finally dropping and colliding with the largest of the tiles: GOODBYE.

'He has gone,' Cosima said, a note of melancholy lowering the volume of her voice.

Herr Uberhorst was the first to remove his finger from the planchette. His movement was swift and sudden, as though he had accidentally touched the hot plate of a stove. Frau Hölderlin, blinking frantically, was still staring at her husband.

Part Three

The Beethoven Frieze

THE CAB RATTLED off and was quickly absorbed into the steady flow of traffic: omnibuses, trams, and a veritable fleet of horse-drawn carts. The stalls of the Naschmarkt had spilled right up to the Secession building and the air was filled with noise: fishmongers, butchers and bakers – costermongers, barrow boys, and pedlars – all of their voices combining to create a disharmonious commercial chorus. Down the Linke Wienzeile, the most conspicuous building was the Theatre an der Wien, the venue where Beethoven's Fidelio had first been performed a hundred years earlier. It seemed fitting to Liebermann that the Secessionists should celebrate the great composer's genius only yards away from a site of almost spiritual significance.

'Well, then,' said Liebermann, straightening his necktie and adjusting his collar. 'Here we are.'

Clara and Hannah looked up towards the House of the Secession. Their gaze was naturally attracted to its most significant feature – a golden dome constructed from a delicate patchwork of gilded bronze leaves.

'You can see why they call it the golden cabbage,' said Hannah.

'Really, my dear, how can you say that? It's exquisite,' Liebermann retorted.

He offered his arms to Clara and Hannah and they walked in a line towards the building.

'To the Age its Art, to Art its Freedom,' said Hannah, reading the legend set in raised lettering beneath the dome.

'A sentiment that I hope you share.'

'And Ver Sacrum. What does that mean?'

'Sacred Stream – it's the title of their magazine.'

'But why? Why Sacred Stream?'

'It was a Roman ritual of consecration that was carried out in times of danger. The young were pledged to save the capital. The Secession, you see, have pledged to save Vienna from the forces of conservatism.'

'Do we really need to be saved?' asked Clara pointedly.

'Saved is probably too strong a word – relieved, I feel, would be more appropriate.'

Hurrying to avoid a convoy of timber-laden carts, they marched briskly across the street and ascended the stairs, watched from above by a trio of gorgons – their fossilised faces framed by more gilded foliage.

Once inside, Liebermann paid the entrance fee – one krone each – and took a catalogue. The cover showed a stylised angel holding a disc of light.

Excited, Clara and Hannah had rushed ahead.

'Wait a minute,' said Liebermann, opening the catalogue and flicking through the pages.

'Why?' asked Clara.

'I want to look at the orientation map.'

'Orientation map? Surely you don't think we're going to get lost, Max.'

Hannah giggled.

'No,' Liebermann replied, 'I don't think we're going to get lost, Clara, but I do want to know what I'm looking at.'

'The Klinger, surely,' said Clara. 'And the Klimt.'

'Indeed, but there are many more artists represented here.' He pointed to some names on the floor plan. 'See: Andri, Auchentaller, Moser – I don't know where to start. Let me see . . .' He read for a few moments and added: 'They suggest the left aisle.'

Clara looked at Hannah and, assuming a mischievous expression, repeated, 'Left aisle.'

The two of them scurried off and Liebermann was forced to stop reading in order to keep up.

They entered a long room where several other people were already standing, looking upwards. Liebermann followed their gaze and felt his heart flutter with excitement. The upper sections of three of the four walls were decorated with an extraordinary fresco. Liebermann spoke softly to his companions: 'The Beethoven Frieze.'

Clara and Hannah glanced up, but had already been distracted by the centrepiece of the exhibition, Klinger's Beethoven sculpture, which could be seen through a large rectangular aperture in the wall. They both began to wander towards the brightly lit space.

'Hannah, Clara,' Liebermann hissed. 'The Klimt!'

Both turned, looking puzzled, frozen in a comical attitude with raised arms and limp, pointing fingers.

In response to their quizzical expressions Liebermann jerked his head up – their eyes followed the movement.

'Oh . . .' said Clara, suddenly seeing the fresco truly for the first time.

Liebermann consulted his catalogue and beckoned, urging his sister and fiancée to come closer.

'The panels form a narrative,' he said, summarising the guide, 'based on Wagner's interpretation of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. The first is called "Yearning for Happiness", the second "Hostile Powers", and the third "Longing for Happiness Fulfilled by Poetry". Together they are supposed to represent the triumph of art over adversity.'

The room was eerily quiet – like a crypt. The other occupants of the room were transfixed, staring up at Klimt's magical panorama as if it held a secret that would only be revealed to the most diligent observer.

Liebermann let his gaze roam from panel to panel and felt slightly giddy. The colours were so bold: the red of ox blood, then aquamarine, silver, rust, topaz, and, of course, acres of gold. It seemed to Liebermann that Klimt must use a palette of gemstones, iron ore, and precious metals.

As Liebermann's eyes became accustomed to Klimt's overwhelming carousel of colours, he was able to appreciate a cast of characters who gradually emerged as distinct individuals. Emaciated, naked figures appealed to a knight in armour; a monstrous winged ape squatted amid a crowd of disturbing death's heads and sirens: and a man and a woman – their bodies pressed together – kissed below a choir of angelic faces. Some parts of the fresco seemed cool and still, while others writhed with activity, every inch alive with movement: ripples, waves, swirls and eddies – vibrant detail, enlivened by the shimmer of appliqué mirrors.

A busty middle-aged woman had entered the room, accompanied by a younger man who seemed vaguely familiar to Liebermann. He thought, perhaps, that he might have seen him around Alsergrund and suspected that he too was a doctor, but could not be sure. The woman raised her lorgnette and peered at the frieze. Within moments she was tutting and grumbled something to her companion, raising her voice as she enunciated words such as 'obscenity' and 'sinful'.

The young man nodded his head and endorsed her condemnation: 'Images of madness . . . fixed ideas . . .' As he came closer Liebermann heard him more clearly: '. . . a shameless caricature of the noble human form. Only a certain type of intellectual would derive pleasure from contemplating such pathological scenes.'

Yes, thought Liebermann. A doctor – and most probably an anti-Semite.

He looked protectively at Clara and Hannah, and was satisfied that neither of them had understood the subtle slur.

The couple walked past, and as they did so the dowager aunt could not resist one more spiteful salvo: '. . . he has exceeded the boundaries of good taste – certainly not an exhibition that any self-respecting young lady would care to attend.'

Hannah suddenly looked worried, this time having caught the comment. Liebermann placed an arm around her shoulder.

'I think that was for my benefit Hannah – not yours.' His sister smiled nervously. 'I promise you, there's nothing wrong in coming to see great art. And this is great art – believe me.'

'Did you see the look she gave us?' said Clara indignantly. But then, returning her attention to the fresco, she added an equivocal: 'However . . .'

'However what?' asked Liebermann.

'She does have a point – of sorts . . .' Clara gestured at the centre wall and lifted her eyebrows. 'I mean to say, it's rather . . .' She paused, unable to find an appropriate word.

'Daring,' said Hannah.

'Yes,' said Clara. 'Daring.'

Klimt's nudes were sensuous and carnal. In the middle panel, a sublimely attractive woman sat with her cheek resting on her knee – a shock of luxurious hair falling between her open thighs. Her expression smouldered with wicked sexuality and her teeth were visible between parted lips.

'And what on Earth is that supposed to be?' continued Clara. 'That monster . . . thing.'

Liebermann consulted his catalogue again.

'The Giant Typhonoeus. Whom the gods themselves could not destroy. He is accompanied by the figures of Sickness, Madness and Death.'

Clara looked towards Hannah. Something passed between them – a conspiratorial glance that brought them close to laughter.

The room had emptied and, taking advantage of the vacant floor, Liebermann stood for a while in several different positions, appreciating the work from a variety of perspectives. His eyes, however, were repeatedly drawn by the seated temptress. There was something about her face that reminded him of Katherine – the English governess's alter ego.

An image came to him, breaking the surface tension of his own consciousness.

Katherine – at the hospital – smoothing her gown. The tautness of the material as it clung to her hips and belly.

Ashamed, Liebermann looked away.

Clara was whispering something in Hannah's ear. His sister smiled and placed a hand over her mouth – as though astonished. He felt an odd mixture of emotions: warmth and, surprisingly, disappointment. Clara was a woman – eight years older than Hannah. Yet she found it so easy to share girlish jokes with his sixteen-year-old sister. Of course, Clara's playfulness was part of her charm; but in this setting, in this great temple of art, her playfulness appeared less like high spirits and more like immaturity. Liebermann was discomfited by his own lack of charity and, reprimanding himself for being mean-spirited, walked back to join them.

'What's so funny now?'

'Nothing that would interest you,' said Clara archly. Liebermann shrugged. 'Shall we go through?' she added – and, taking Hannah's hand, she walked to the end of the room where some stairs led to the central aisle. Before leaving the Beethoven Frieze, Liebermann ran his fingers down the roughcast wall and pondered the significance of a marble head.

'Hurry up, Max, I want to see the Klinger,' said Clara. She made wide circles with her cupped hand, as though trying to create a draught that would move him forward. Hannah, impressed by Clara's impatience, joined in.

'Yes, Max. Hurry up.'

'But this is by Klinger too.'

'Yes, but it's not Klinger's Beethoven, is it?'

Liebermann smiled, enjoying the girls' frustration.

They emerged in a large austere space under a vaulted ceiling decorated with ceramic plaques and primitive sculptures. Liebermann was utterly enchanted. He felt like an archaeologist, exploring the miraculously preserved tomb of an ancient king.

'Isn't it wonderful?' he said.

'It is indeed,' said Clara. 'But if we continue at this rate, we'll never get to see the main exhibit.'

Ignoring Clara's remark, Liebermann continued: 'Curiously affecting, don't you think – the atmosphere they've created? You know, I was reading in the Neue Press, one of the critics, I forget which, but he wrote that by the time most people reach the central chamber they have already been lulled into a state close to hypnosis. I know exactly what he means, don't you?'

Stretching her hands out in front of her body, Clara closed her eyes and shuffled along like someone walking in their sleep. Unfortunately, at that moment a party of gentlemen appeared. One of them looked particularly flamboyant – a large, bearded man wearing a straw hat and a white piqué vest.

'Clara!' said Hannah.

Clara opened her eyes and, quickly appraising the situation, pretended to be reaching towards Liebermann in order to brush a hair from his jacket. After the men had passed, Clara and Hannah burst out laughing – chattering breathlessly about what had just happened.

'Ladies,' said Liebermann, wagging his finger. He walked on, aware that Clara and Hannah were following, feigning remorse but unable to stop giggling.

Klinger's Beethoven was situated in the middle of the central aisle, on a raised dais and surrounded by a low circular fence. Semi-nude and seated on a large throne, the great composer leaned forward with clenched fists, gazing into an infinite, visionary distance. He was entirely godlike – the familiar heavy, square head exuded gravitas, power and dignity.

Here, then, was the inner sanctum, the fulcrum of the entire exhibition, a sacred place where the votaries of art could worship and pray.

There was no sign of the frosty couple whom they had encountered earlier, but many other people were milling around the sculpture.

'Now, that is beautiful,' said Clara. 'He looks like . . . he looks like Zeus.'

'Yes,' said Liebermann, pleasantly surprised. 'I think that must have been the intention.'

'He looks thoroughly annoyed,' said Hannah.

'Well,' said Liebermann, 'Beethoven had a lot to be annoyed about. Did you know, Mahler conducted a chamber arrangement of the Ninth symphony here – on the opening night?'

'Did he?' said Hannah. 'Oh, that would have been wonderful.'

'And in the presence of the artist, I believe.'

'My dear,' said Clara, taking Hannah's arm confidentially, 'do you know the Molls? They live in a new semi-detached villa in Heiligenstadt – on Steinfeldgasse?'

Hannah shook her head.

'Well,' continued Clara, 'if you don't, your mother will. Frau Moll used to be married to Emile Schindler, the painter. He died a few years ago, and Frau Moll married one of his pupils. Anyway, the daughter, Alma Schindler –' Clara lowered her voice '– such a flirt, you wouldn't believe it. They say she's very good-looking but, to tell the truth, I can't see it. Well, she was married in February – to Director Mahler.'

'Oh,' said Hannah, 'how lovely for her.'

'Well,' continued Clara, 'perhaps not. I've heard it said that the wedding was rather hurried . . .'

Hannah looked puzzled, and Clara, bending close, whispered something into the young girl's ear. Liebermann watched his sister's expression change from amusement to disbelief.

'Clara,' said Liebermann. 'Must you fill Hannah's head with such idle gossip!'

'Maxim,' said Hannah, 'you sound just like father.'

Opening her fan, Clara peered over its quivering fringe like a coquette.

'Someone has to keep Hannah informed . . .'

Liebermann sighed and stared into Beethoven's eyes. Clara and Hannah continued to chatter – but they fell silent when two gaily dressed young men genuflected in front of Klinger's masterpiece.

'IT WAS VERY KIND of you to see me, Minister Schelling. I realise that you are a very busy man.'

Schelling's jowls wobbled when he rocked his head backwards and forwards as he ushered Liebermann into the drawing room.

'It is my earnest wish that Miss Lydgate should be returned to health as soon as possible – she seemed so distressed when she was living here. My schedule today is rather hectic but I am perfectly happy to place myself at your disposal for the next half-hour or so, if you feel that my layman's opinion will be of some value.'

Schelling was of medium build and wore a dark suit, wing collars and a black bow tie. A gold watch-chain hung from his waistcoat, the fabric of which bulged against the pressure of an incipient paunch. His formal dress suggested that he intended to leave for the parliament building as soon as the interview was finished.

'Thank you,' said Liebermann. 'I won't delay you any longer than is absolutely necessary.'

A woman appeared in the hallway and entered through the open double doors. Her face was rather careworn, and the style and cut of her floral dress gave her a somewhat matronly appearance.

'My wife,' said Schelling. 'Beatrice, this is Doctor Liebermann, Amelia's doctor.'

'Frau Schelling,' said Liebermann, bowing.

She stood on the threshold, seemingly unsure of whether to enter the room.

'Would you like some tea, Herr Doctor?' she asked.

'No, thank you,' Liebermann replied.

She glanced quickly and anxiously at her husband.

'In which case, you will excuse me.'

She stepped backwards and closed the doors.

'Forgive me, Minister,' said Liebermann, 'but I was hoping to speak with Frau Schelling.'

'I'm afraid that won't be possible,' said Schelling in a peremptory fashion. 'My wife has found this business most upsetting. I must insist that she be spared any further distress.'

'Of course,' said Liebermann.

'I knew that you would understand. Please, do sit down.'

The room was large and well furnished. In the centre was a circular table over which a tablecloth with tasselled edges had been draped. The impressive display of flowers that it supported consisted of blooms that were out of season and Liebermann suspected they were synthetic: probably expensive silk copies. On an ornate chest of drawers, a glass cabinet was crowded with a collection of objets d'art, and on either side of this stood two electric lamps with green shades. Numerous family photographs in silver frames had been arranged on a small corner table. Liebermann noticed that none of them showed Herr Schelling and his wife together.

'Minister,' Liebermann began. 'I understand that you are related to Miss Lydgate?'

'Indeed. Her mother is a distant cousin – our families have always corresponded. When Amelia completed the English equivalent of the Gymnasium she expressed a keen desire to study here in Vienna with Herr Doctor Landsteiner. I take it the girl has told you about her grandfather's journal?'

'Yes, she has.'

'I suggested to Greta – Amelia's mother – that Amelia should live here. It's a big house and I thought the children might benefit. I was happy to support Amelia if, in return, she was willing to provide Edward and Adele with English lessons.'

'Were the children fond of their governess?'

'Yes, they were. It was a very satisfactory arrangement.'

Schelling leaned back in the well-upholstered chair and rested his hands on his stomach.

'When did you first realise that Miss Lydgate was unwell?'

'Doctor Liebermann,' said Schelling, creating a steeple with his fingers. 'May I be perfectly frank?'

'That would be most helpful.'

'I have always harboured doubts about the poor girl's mental health, right from the very beginning.'

'Oh?'

'She is of such an odd disposition. And her interests – blood, disease – is it not irregular for a woman, particularly a young woman, to be preoccupied with such morbid subjects? I am no psychologist, Herr Doctor, but I am inclined to believe that there is something in Miss Lydgate's character that can only be described as unnatural. She takes no pleasure in those activities that one ordinarily associates with her sex. She would rather attend a lecture at a museum than a ball – or search out a dusty volume in Wieblinger Strasse than go to Habig for a new hat. To tell the truth, within weeks of her arrival I had the most grave concerns.'

Liebermann noticed that, in spite of his age, Schelling's hair and moustache were totally black. He assumed that the man must use some kind of dying agent to achieve the effect.

'My wife reached the same conclusion,' Schelling continued. 'Beatrice – sweet soul that she is – encouraged Amelia to be more outgoing. She even tried to lift her spirits by introducing her to a circle of close friends – they meet here on Wednesday afternoons to play taroc. It was obvious that the girl did not enjoy participating, nor did she appear to derive any pleasure from the conversation of her female peers. Indeed, I gather that she persistently excused herself early, preferring the company of her books and her grandfather's journal to that of people. It cannot be right for a young woman to shut herself away in this manner. Although I am not qualified to comment on such matters, I would guess that too many hours spent in retreat from the world cannot be healthy. Is that not so, Doctor Liebermann?'

'I suppose that rather depends on the individual.'

'Perhaps, but it is my opinion – for what it may be worth – that the isolated mind loses its purchase on reality all too easily and becomes prone to fantasy.'

Schelling looked directly into Liebermann's eyes and held his gaze. He seemed to be expecting the young doctor to say something. Liebermann remained silent and did nothing, apart from noticing the appearance of a pulse at Schelling's temple.

'Is that not so, Herr Doctor?' Schelling insisted. On the mantelpiece the mechanism of a carriage clock whirred and a delicate chime sounded the hour. Schelling turned to look at the clock face and Liebermann noticed that he moved his whole body. The wicker of his chair creaked as he shifted position.

'When did Miss Lydgate's symptoms develop?' asked Liebermann.

Schelling considered the question before answering.

'My wife noticed that she had lost her appetite some time ago. The cough, and that business with her arm . . .'

'The paralysis.'

'Yes, the cough and paralysis came on suddenly. About three weeks ago now.'

'Did anything significant occur,' asked Liebermann, 'around the time when the paralysis first appeared? Let us say, the night before?'

'Significant? What do you mean, significant?'

'Well, did anything happen that might have caused Miss Lydgate distress?'

'Not that I know of.'

'Can you tell me what happened? How you learned of the paralysis?'

'There isn't a great deal to tell. Amelia didn't rise at her usual time and said that she was feeling sick. This in itself wasn't unusual: she often complained of sickness. Weak constitution. She wouldn't open the door, and Beatrice became quite desperate. Eventually, Beatrice demanded that Amelia open the door and was shocked when she entered. The room was in disarray, and the girl was in a dreadful state. Dishevelled, tearful – and coughing. Beatrice suspected that Amelia might have tried to harm herself – there was blood on her scissors.'

'You weren't present?'

'No, I had already left the house. The family doctor was called and he advised that Amelia should be attended by a specialist. Beatrice thought that it would be better for all concerned if Miss Lydgate was treated in hospital. She found Miss Lydgate's appearance very distressing, and she was also worried about the children. She did not want them to see her looking so . . . unwell.'

'Have Miss Lydgate's parents been informed?'

'Of course – I sent a telegram immediately. They asked me whether they should come, and I assured them that this would not be necessary. I explained that, with respect to hysteria, we in Vienna boast the best specialists in the world. Isn't that so, Herr Doctor?'

Liebermann acknowledged the disingenuous compliment with a forced smile. Looking over Schelling's shoulder he pointed to a dull landscape on the wall.

'Is that a Friml, Minister?'

Schelling turned, again moving his whole torso.

'Friml? No, it's a German artist. Frauscher. I have several.'

Feigning interest, Liebermann rose and as he did so he stole a glance down at Schelling's shirt collar, where he glimpsed the edge of what appeared to be a bandage dressing.

'Do you collect, Doctor Liebermann?'

'A little,' Liebermann replied. 'Minor Secessionists, mostly.'

'Really?' said Schelling. 'I'm afraid I cannot claim to be an admirer of their work.'

'Well,' said Liebermann, 'they are an acquired taste. Thank you for your time, Minister.'

'Is that all?' said Schelling, somewhat surprised. He stood. 'I doubt this interview has helped you very much.'

'Oh, it certainly has,' said Liebermann. 'I've learned a great deal.'

The two men shook hands and Schelling escorted Liebermann to the door.

As he left the house, Liebermann was eager to get back to the Hospital. He needed to talk to Stefan Kanner. Kanner and Schelling were very different men but they shared one thing in common. It was a trivial observation, but potentially very significant. In order to test how significant, Liebermann would need Kanner's cooperation with an experiment.

LIEBERMANN AND RHEINHARDT had finished their musical evening with a near-faultless performance of Schumann's Dichterliebe.

After the brandy had been decanted and the freshly cut cigars lit, the two men spoke little and, as was frequently the case, stared silently into the fire. The jaunty melody of the third song in Schumann's cycle lingered in Liebermann's imagination – and particularly the words Ich liebe alleine . . .

I love only her – she who is small, exquisite, chaste, unique.

Why had that phrase stuck in his mind?

It was, in effect, a description of Clara. Yet there was something unsettling about its persistence.

I love only her.

The music continued to resonate in Liebermann's head, acquiring with each repetition an ironic quality. Gradually the ghostly concert faded beneath the crackle of burning logs and the sound of his manservant Ernst tidying up song books and closing the piano stool.

'Oskar?'

Rheinhardt turned to look at his friend. Unusually, the young doctor was looking somewhat perplexed.

'Oskar, I would like to ask you a personal question, if I may?'

'Of course.'

'I was wondering . . . have you ever . . .' Liebermann paused and winced. 'What I mean to ask is . . . after announcing your engagement, were you entirely sure that you were doing the right thing? In getting married, that is.'

Rheinhardt's expression immediately softened. 'My dear fellow, of course I had doubts. Everyone does.'

Liebermann blew out a cloud of smoke and the tension eased from his shoulders.

'How many weeks has it been now?' Rheinhardt continued. 'Since your proposal?'

'About three weeks. Although it feels much longer.'

'Well, now that the initial excitement has passed it's inevitable that the happier emotions should give way to a more thoughtful frame of mind. Doubts creep in – and rightly so. After all, a man who did not give proper consideration to such a momentous decision would be correctly identified as a fool, wouldn't he?'

'Yes,' said Liebermann, 'I suppose he would.'

'I cannot give you any advice, Max,' Rheinhardt continued, 'because every man must make his own way in life. But I can tell you a little of my experience – which may or may not be helpful.' The Inspector's tired eyes became oddly bright. 'Had I taken heed of those doubts, I don't know what would have become of me! What a sorry existence I would have led. Gentlemen's clubs, trips to Baden, a little shooting, perhaps, and the occasional company of a shop girl . . . I tell you, Max, there isn't a single day that passes when I am not forced to count myself among the most fortunate of men. My life would have been empty and cheerless without the love of my dear Else and the endless diversion and amusement afforded me by my beautiful daughters.'

Liebermann found his friend's words deeply reassuring.

Rheinhardt continued to talk in glowing terms about his wife and family, and Liebermann reciprocated, describing Clara and something of her background. He felt slightly uncomfortable: it seemed as though he was aping his father, talking of the long association between the Liebermann and Weiss families. However, he also felt curiously relieved, as though he had embarked on a process of bridge-building, linking the various parts of his life together – making the entirety more coherent and secure.

In due course the subject of their conversation changed, and by degrees they returned reluctantly to the dreadful experience that they had shared at the Institute.

'You know,' said Rheinhardt, 'I haven't been able to clear my mind of it. The mental picture of those poor . . .' He paused before adding: 'Babies.'

'Indeed,' Liebermann replied. 'It was a pathetic sight.' He lit another cigar and added: 'It hasn't been reported in the newspapers?'

'No.'

'Because of Commissioner Brügel?'

'Of course.' Rheinhardt frowned at the mention of his superior. 'He says that such a discovery will only make matters worse – make the murder appear even more sensational.'

'Have there been any more developments?'

Rheinhardt began describing the interview that he had conducted with Roche. Occasionally Liebermann asked him to elaborate some detail, but on the whole the young doctor was content to listen. The cigar in his hand burned slowly – turning inch by inch into a length of wilting ash.

'I'd put that cigar out if I were you,' said Rheinhardt.

Liebermann turned lazily and flicked his thumb. The ash fell into the tray producing a small, dusty cloud.

'What's his first name, this Roche character?' asked Liebermann.

'Theodore.'

Liebermann thought for a few moments, stubbing out his cigar before saying: 'They were aware he might seek revenge.'

'Who, Fräulein Löwenstein and Braun?'

'Yes.'

'Why do you say that?'

'When I hypnotised Rosa Sucher and she spoke in Löwenstein's voice, the name Theo was mentioned.'

'I don't remember that.'

'Yes, right at the every end. It was when her speech had become quite incoherent . . . she was saying things like, Never, I swear, and God help me. . . Among all that was the name Theo.'

'How interesting.'

'A large city must offer those who live by fraud endless possibilities for deception. Where else could one find so many willing dupes? Once Fräulein Löwenstein and Braun had squandered their ill-gotten gains, returning to Vienna might have been something of a necessity; however, by doing so they were taking a considerable risk. They had ruined Roche – and, as we all know, desperate men are dangerous. It doesn't surprise me in the least that his name should have arisen during their argument.'

Rheinhardt shook his head.

'I don't know, Max. Just because they mentioned his name . . . it doesn't mean that they were worried about him, does it? We don't even know if they were talking about the same Theo.'

'True, but it is a reasonable hypothesis. Did he strike you as a man capable of murder?'

'I fear that all men, once betrayed – particularly by a lover – are capable of murder.'

'And then there is also the tantalising issue of his current occupation: working in an armaments factory. Is it possible that he might have in his possession the means to construct a bullet with unusual, seemingly magical, properties?'

'I really don't see why a former theatre manager, simply by working in an armaments factory, should acquire more knowledge about ballistics than our police experts possess. That seems implausible to me. Also, would a guilty man really make such an admission?'

'How do you mean?'

'He said that he would have killed Charlotte Löwenstein – if only he'd had the opportunity.'

'Perhaps that was his intention, Oskar, to mislead by simulating honesty.'

'No, I don't think so. Besides, the more we find out about Braun, the more likely it seems that he is the perpetrator. Wouldn't you agree?'

Liebermann did not respond.

'It is clear that he was Fräulein Löwenstein's lover and accomplice,' continued Rheinhardt. 'And, being a stage magician, he might have had the ability to work the illusion of the murder scene – you yourself have insisted that it was an illusion.'

Still Liebermann did not respond.

'Clearly, the man has no principles.' Rheinhardt's invective became more impassioned. 'Think, for example, of how he was taking advantage of the little seamstress. It's unconscionable. He's hotheaded, and what's more, he hasn't been seen since the night Fräulein Löwenstein was murdered.'

Liebermann pinched his lower lip and grunted, without committing himself.

'What?' asked Rheinhardt, slightly annoyed at his friend's reticence.

'It still doesn't make much sense to me.'

Rheinhardt gestured, urging Liebermann to elaborate.

'We must ask ourselves what motivated Braun,' Liebermann murmured. 'What did he have to gain?'

'Money. He was happy to ruin Roche for money.'

'That's not quite the same as murder. Besides, Fräulein Löwenstein was hardly wealthy.'

'Perhaps it was something to do with the pregnancy – the children.'

'Unscrupulous individuals rarely expend energy worrying about their illegitimate offspring.'

'Perhaps he killed her on the spur of the moment – during one of their arguments?'

'Impossible. An illusion requires planning.'

'Then the motive is as yet unknown – and we'll find out when we catch him.'

'With respect, Oskar, that is no way to proceed.' After a brief pause Liebermann added: 'It lacks elegance. Wishful thinking should play no part in the process that leads to a satisfying solution.'

Rheinhardt suppressed a smile but could not refrain from raising his eyebrows. Liebermann picked up his glass and, disturbing the brandy with a swirl, inhaled the rich, full-bodied fragrance.

'And there's another thing,' he continued. 'Having gone to the trouble of devising such a brilliant illusion, why would Braun then choose to run away like a common street thief? What purpose could that serve, save to draw attention and create suspicion?'

'He had second thoughts – lost confidence in his illusion, decided that it wouldn't fool anyone after all.'

'Surely not.'

'People behave inconsistently,' said Rheinhardt. 'You of all people should appreciate that. We can't always expect to find elegant solutions.'

'Indeed,' replied Liebermann, 'but I have a firm conviction that the most elegant solutions are also the right ones. Why don't you have another cigar, Oskar?'

Before taking one from the box, Rheinhardt produced from his pocket a photograph, which he handed to Liebermann. 'Take a look at this.'

It was an image of a handsome clean-shaven man in his late twenties.

'Otto Braun?'

Rheinhardt lit his cigar, expelling several clouds of blue smoke as the tobacco kindled.

'We acquired it from a theatrical agent, the man who represented the scoundrel when he was doing his magic shows at The Danube. It's an old photograph but apparently a good likeness. I've had it reproduced and distributed to police departments all over the country.'

Liebermann examined the portrait, tilting it in the firelight.

'So, what do you make of that face, Herr Doctor? Do you see anything of interest?'

'Oskar,' said Liebermann, adopting a pained expression, 'you are asking me to engage in pseudo-science, a form of divination no better than palm-reading.'

'I thought you doctors accepted physiognomy?'

'There are many who subscribe to Lombroso's doctrine that it is possible to identify a criminal by the location of his ears or the size of his jaw; however, I have very little sympathy with that school of thought.' Liebermann turned the photograph towards Rheinhardt. 'Look at him. Can you see the stamp of our animal ancestry in his face? Atavisms? I certainly can't. In fact, I would go so far as to say that his appearance suggests the very opposite. There is something rather noble about the configuration of his lineaments. He looks more like a romantic poet – a young Schiller, perhaps – than a cheat. No, Lombroso is wrong. A criminal cannot be identified by the cast of his nose and mouth. Only the nature of his mind has any significance.'

Liebermann handed the photograph back to Rheinhardt, who glanced at it once more before shrugging and slipping it into his pocket.

'And what about the other members of the Löwenstein circle?' asked Liebermann. 'Have you found out any more about them?'

'Yes, I have,' said Rheinhardt. 'I started taking an interest in Bruckmüller after we saw him with the Mayor at the Philharmonic concert.'

'Oh?'

'I thought it rather odd, that a man who mixed with the Mayor and his friends – men concerned with the commerce and traffic of the real world – should also attend seances in Leopoldstadt.'

Liebermann turned the brandy glass in his hand and observed how the refracted light splintered into a kaleidoscope of jagged rainbows.

'There are many superstitious people in the world, Oskar.'

'True. But I can remember, even as I was interviewing him, thinking This man isn't the right type.

The locksmith, yes. Or Záborszky – the mad Count. But Bruckmüller? No.'

'You also felt the same way about Hölderlin – the banker.'

Rheinhardt started: 'Yes, I did. However did you know that?'

'Never mind,' said Liebermann, waving his hand. 'I'm sorry, do carry on.'

'I decided to make some inquiries,' continued Rheinhardt, looking at his friend suspiciously. 'The first thing I learned was that Bruckmüller is an active member of the Christian Social Party – so, there's the Lueger connection. And the next thing I learned was that he's betrothed to Cosima von Rath.'

'The heiress?'

'Indeed. Do you know much about her?'

'Only that she is very rich and very large.'

'She is also very strange.'

'Why do you say that?'

'She is greatly interested in the occult, and believes herself to be the reincarnation of an Egyptian princess. It's no secret. In fact, her arrival at certain society functions has become something of a spectacle. One wit, I think it was Krauss, said that her entrance at a society gathering is more impressive than a production of Aida.'

Liebermann laughed.

'I should get Die Fackel more often. He's a great wit, Krauss, but he's so conservative when it comes to art . . .'

'This von Rath woman,' continued Rheinhardt, 'is a great patron of spiritualist organisations. Apparently it was von Rath who discovered Fräulein Löwenstein, introducing her fiancé at a later stage. Bruckmüller remained loyal to Fräulein Löwenstein's group, while von Rath continued her spiritual quest elsewhere, sampling numerous other circles and psychics – as was, and still is, her wont.'

'How do you know all this?'

'Bruckmüller told me, when I interviewed him. But, at the time, I had no idea that Cosima von Rath was his fiancée.'

Liebermann placed his glass on the table and turned to look at his friend.

'I wonder if she is a devotee of Seth?'

Rheinhardt nodded, silently savouring the implications and possibilities of such a connection.

'Anyway,' Rheinhardt continued, 'there's more to tell. Yesterday I received a note from Cosima von Rath, urging me to abandon my futile investigation. Apparently she has been in receipt of a communication from the spirit world confirming that Fräulein Löwenstein's demise was a supernatural event.'

'How very good of her to keep you informed. What else do you know about Bruckmüller?'

'Not a great deal. He's very much a self-made man – and highly ambitious. He was born the son of a provincial butcher, inherited the family business, and through hard work and some very shrewd investments managed to better himself. As you know, he is the proprietor of Bruckmüller & Co, the surgical instrument suppliers, and I believe he owns two factories.'

'And now he's marrying into one of the wealthiest families in Vienna.'

'Which, as you can imagine, has been the subject of much gossip. When old Ferdinand dies and Cosima inherits her fortune, Bruckmüller will be in a position to wield considerable political influence.'

Both men fell silent.

'You mentioned the locksmith . . .' said Liebermann. 'Have you learned any more of his history?'

'Yes, although it's all fairly inconsequential. He's a peculiar fellow, and the nature of his work inevitably arouses suspicions. But . . .'

'You still don't think he did it.'

Rheinhardt shook his head.

There was a soft knock. The double doors swung open, and Ernst stepped into the room.

'I'm sorry to trouble you, sir, but Inspector Rheinhardt's assistant is outside. He says it is a matter of some urgency.'

'You had better show him in,' said Liebermann, rising from his seat.

'Always something!' said Rheinhardt. 'I should never let them know where I'm going to be.' He stood up and walked to the fireplace where he rested an elbow on the mantelpiece. A few moments later Ernst reappeared, accompanied by Haussmann.

'Herr Doctor, Inspector Rheinhardt.' The young man bowed.

The servant discreetly excused himself and the doors closed.

'Haussmann, what is it now?' Rheinhardt was unable to conceal his irritation.

'My apologies for disturbing you sir, and the good doctor, but something's just happened that I thought you'd want to know about.'

'Well, man, what is it?'

'Otto Braun, sir. He's just presented himself at the Grosse Sperlgasse station. Gave himself up – said he'd like to help us solve the mystery.'

Rheinhardt said nothing. He drew on his cigar and threw what remained of it into the fire.

'I had to act on my own discretion, sir. I couldn't find a senior officer. I hope—' Liebermann raised his hand, indicating that he didn't need to justify himself.

'Well . . .' said Rheinhardt, puffing out his cheeks, hopelessly searching for words that might express his surprise.

'EXCUSE ME, STEFAN,' said Liebermann, leaning forward and sniffing around the lapels of Kanner's jacket. Kanner's posture stiffened with embarrassment and discomfort.

'Well?' said Kanner.

'Not a trace.'

'Nor should there be. This suit was collected from the cleaner's this morning and I took my shirt straight out of the airing cupboard – it hasn't been anywhere near my wardrobe.'

'Excellent. Are you ready?'

'Yes,' said Kanner, although the tone of his voice suggested quite the opposite.

Liebermann slapped his hands on Kanner's shoulders and gave him a good-humoured shake.

'You'll be fine. Trust me.'

He opened the door for Kanner who reluctantly stepped out into the corridor. They walked its length and began to climb the austere stone staircase.

'I asked Nurse Rupius to meet us at nine-thirty.'

'Max, if your experiment makes me look foolish in any way – I will expect to be compensated.'

'Dinner at the Bristol?'

'Done.'

'But you won't look foolish.'

When they reached the second floor, the two men turned along a narrow passage, on either side of which were examination rooms. 'This is the one,' said Liebermann. Pausing for a moment, he looked at his wristwatch. 'We're late.' He turned the door handle and pushed the door wide open.

Inside, Nurse Rupius and Miss Lydgate were sitting next to each other.

The nurse stood up: 'Doctor Liebermann, Doctor Kanner.'

Her cheeks flushed a little.

'Good morning, Nurse Rupius,' said Liebermann. 'And Miss Lydgate – good morning.' Turning, and gesturing towards his friend, Liebermann said, 'Miss Lydgate, you will no doubt remember my colleague, Doctor Stefan Kanner.'

The English woman looked at Kanner, her gaze limpid.

'I do not recollect being formally introduced.'

Kanner executed a small bow and advanced with caution, keeping his gaze trained on the patient.

'Doctor Kanner is here today to examine your throat,' said Liebermann. 'He has much experience of treating nervous coughs and bronchial disorders, and I would very much value his opinion.'

Liebermann took a step backwards, leaving Kanner standing on his own.

'How are you feeling today, Miss Lydgate?' asked Kanner, very tentatively.

Looking up, Amelia Lydgate stared into Kanner's bright blue eyes.

'I do not believe, Doctor Kanner, that there has been any change in my condition.'

'I see,' said Kanner, moving forward warily. As he did so, Miss Lydgate's left hand flew up and Kanner stopped dead in his tracks. The patient covered her mouth and began to cough. Kanner looked back at Liebermann who gave a single curt nod, urging his friend to proceed. Kanner took a deep breath and drew up a wooden chair.

Sitting directly in front of his patient, Kanner smiled, and said: 'Would you open your mouth, Miss Lydgate? As wide as you can, please.'

Lydgate opened her mouth and Kanner peered down her throat.

'Now, if you would just turn towards the window and tilt your head back a little . . . Good. Now say Ahhh.'

Amelia Lydgate did as she was told.

Kanner moved his chair forward, nervously glancing down at Miss Lydgate's unpredictable right hand. He opened his medical bag and took out a small spatula.

'This may feel a little uncomfortable.' He placed the spatula on her tongue and pressed down.

'Would you cough, please?'

She coughed.

'And again – a little louder. Thank you.'

He removed the spatula and handed it to Nurse Rupius. Reaching into his bag, he picked up a stethoscope.

'Please lean forward.'

Standing up, Kanner placed the chest-piece at several points on her back and asked Miss Lydgate to either cough or breathe in deeply.

'Very good,' he said finally, removing the stethoscope. As he did so, Nurse Rupius handed him the spatula, which she had disinfected and dried by the sink. He dropped the stethoscope and spatula back into his bag and closed the hasp.

'Thank you,' he said. Then, turning to Liebermann and picking up his bag, he added: 'The examination is complete.' He was grinning with relief.

'Nurse Rupius,' said Liebermann, 'would you take Miss Lydgate back to the ward?'

The nurse smiled, and pushed Miss Lydgate's wheelchair forward.

As Liebermann opened the door, he addressed his patient: 'I'll be along in a few minutes, Miss Lydgate, after I've spoken to Doctor Kanner.'

He closed the door.

'Well,' said Kanner. 'Quite extraordinary. Remarkable, in fact.'

'See? I told you it would be all right.'

Kanner shook his head. 'So it was all because of my cologne.'

'That's right. Minister Schelling wears the same one.'

'Minister Schelling?'

'Yes, Stefan – the man who tried to rape her.'

COSIMA VON RATH was struck by the change in Frau Hölderlin's appearance. She looked much younger. Her hair had been dyed red, piled up in plaits and was held in place by a large tortoiseshell comb. She was wearing an exquisitely cut dress of scarlet tulle, with light brown doeskin shoes that matched her stockings precisely. The overall effect of the transformation was marred, however, by the persistence of her nervous blinking.

'He is a strange man,' said Cosima, 'without a doubt. However, I fear that he is also a bad man.'

Frau Hölderlin offered the heiress some more tea and guglhupf – which she politely declined.

'It was delicious, Juno – but I cannot eat another crumb.'

She appealed to her host by resting a hand on her bulging stomach.

Frau Hölderlin nodded. 'I must say,' she continued, 'I've never felt entirely comfortable in the Count's company.'

'Do you know the story?' said Cosima, nonchalantly stroking the flowered chintz of the arm of the sofa on which she sat.

Frau Hölderlin leaned forward. 'I've heard rumours, of course. Nonsense, I'm sure. That he—' She blinked twice. 'That he killed his father to inherit the estate, and then squandered the family fortune.'

Cosima laughed.

'He is a bad man, but I do not think that he would have killed his own father. The old Count died of tuberculosis – he wasn't murdered.'

'But how do you know that?'

'My father has business interests in Hungary – some farms and a factory – and some property in the capital. He is a good friend of Count Cserteg, whose family come from the same area.'

Cosima paused.

'And . . .?' said Frau Hölderlin, indicating that she was anxious for her guest to continue.

'The rumours,' said Cosima, 'contain a kernel of truth. It is almost certainly the case that Count Záborszky lived a dissolute life. Apparently, he spent little time on the estate and showed no interest in its management. He was always in Pest, enjoying the company of singers and other ne'er-do-wells. He was very fond of the theatre, so they say, though in truth it is more probable that he was only fond of actresses . . .'

Frau Hölderlin remembered how the Count would raise Fräulein Löwenstein's hand to his lips and let his mouth linger on her thin, pale fingers.

'Or perhaps I am doing him an injustice,' Cosima continued. 'He was sufficiently fond of the theatre to waste a good deal of his money subsidising a number of third-rate establishments which failed miserably. So I suppose it wasn't just the actresses – whose acquaintance he could have made, presumably, without making such a large investment.'

'Men can be such fools,' said Frau Hölderlin.

'Indeed,' said Cosima. 'Whatever his intention, as a result of his activities he incurred some very serious debts, which he then tried to reduce by gambling – with predictable results. When the old Count Záborszky fell ill his son appeared to take a more active role in the management of the estate. But in reality he was simply exploiting his father's weakness. By the time the old Count died there was virtually nothing left – a meagre inheritance that was subsequently deposited in a Viennese bank account. His mother and sisters were left to fend for themselves. If it hadn't been for the assistance of some of the local gentry, Count Cserteg among them, the women would have been destitute. Needless to say, the family seat and land had to be sold, the proceeds of which were absorbed almost entirely by the young Count's outstanding debts.'

'Scandalous,' said Frau Hölderlin. 'I knew it. I rarely take a dislike to someone without good cause. I do not have the gift, but I have always trusted my intuition.'

Detecting a cake crumb nestling in a fold of her scarlet dress, Frau Hölderlin removed the offending particle and discreetly returned it to her plate.

OTTO BRAUN HAD not expected to find himself lying on a divan in a featureless hospital room. Nor had he bargained for the doctor, whose watchful presence he could sense behind him.

'We were staying at The Grand, in Baden. There were a lot of wealthy people there, as you'd expect – it's a splendid hotel. One of the guests was a medium, a woman called Frau Henneberg. She was attracting a lot of attention, particularly from those patrons who were visiting the spa because of ill health. She agreed to hold a series of evening seances, and I attended one – just out of interest. It was a show, of course, nothing more, and I could see how the illusions were achieved: the rapping, the apparitions, the appearance of objects. One of the gentlemen present was undoubtedly an accomplice – I had no trouble identifying him. At the end of the seance, Frau Henneberg invited all those present to make a voluntary donation. I swear she must have made ninety florins. It was all so easy.' Braun stopped and slid both hands through his hair. 'How long do I have to stay like this?'

'Until the interview is finished.'

Resigning himself to the peculiarity of his circumstances, the young man sighed, releasing the tension in his shoulders.

'That's better' said Liebermann. 'I want you to feel comfortable – close your eyes if it helps.'

Braun did as he was instructed and crossed his arms over his chest. Liebermann was reminded of a corpse, and wondered whether the gesture represented some subtle communication from Braun's unconscious. Was he already unintentionally confessing to having committed murder?

'When you arrived at Fräulein Löwenstein's apartment,' asked Liebermann, 'why did you choose to run away?'

'There were police officers outside – they'd stopped Hölderlin and his wife. I thought they'd finally caught up with us. There was that business at The Danube . . . and some other business.'

'What other business?'

Braun frowned: 'It was my understanding, Herr Doctor, that I was brought here to discuss Fräulein Löwenstein's murder.'

'Indeed, Herr Braun, and it was my understanding that you wished to help the police with their inquiries.'

'All right,' said Braun, curling his upper lip. 'We met an old woman in Baden – a widow. She had some valuable jewellery, a diamond bracelet, a sapphire pendant . . .' He waved his hand in the air, suggesting that further itemisation was unnecessary. 'When the opportunity presented itself, Lotte took the lot.'

'Were you party to this theft? Did you assist Fräulein Löwenstein?'

Braun opened his eyes, his mouth twisting to form a sardonic smile.

'No,' he said. His eyelids came down slowly, like those of a sated cat. 'Lotte was always taking things.'

Liebermann noticed that Braun's hands were trembling a little. Yet the young man did not seem particularly anxious.

'You ran. But where to?'

'A public house.'

'Which one?'

'I don't know – a small one. It's out in Meidling . . . The landlord's a big Ruthenian fellow. I think his name's Gergo. I met a woman there. I was able to stay with her for a while.'

'What's her name?'

'Lili.'

'Was she a prostitute?'

'As good as . . .'

'So you never left Vienna. You've been here all the time?'

'Yes. The day before yesterday, I wandered into a coffee house and picked up an old copy of the Wiener Zeitung. It was in the evening, about eight o'clock. I found the article – you know, the one about Lotte's murder – and immediately realised that I'd made a big mistake. I went straight to the police station.'

Braun swallowed. His skin looked clammy.

'How would you describe your relationship with Fräulein Löwenstein?'

'I'm not sure what you mean.'

'Were you happy together?'

'Were we happy?' Braun repeated the question. 'Yes, I suppose we were, particularly at the beginning. We seemed to have, how can I put this, a similar approach to life, a similar way of seeing things – and she was very beautiful, of course. Very beautiful. But it didn't last. Things weren't so good once we were back in Vienna. We argued and argued – and Lotte, who had been such a carefree woman, so unconventional, became preoccupied. Things that had never bothered her before acquired greater significance – she started worrying about the future . . . our security. And she became quite irritable. Sometimes, weeks would pass without either of us saying a single civil word to the other.'

'What did you argue about?'

'Money, usually. Somehow, there was never enough. She said that I drank too much. You disgust me – that's what she used to shout.

You disgust me . . .

You know, it's ironic that I'm here now, suspected of killing her. It could so easily have been the other way around. She tried to stab me once – and she almost succeeded. I'd been drinking and was in no mood for her nonsense. I can remember thinking, if she says You disgust me once more I'll . . . I'll . . .'

Braun fell silent.

'Did you strike her?' asked Liebermann.

Braun lowered his chin, a movement so subtle as to almost escape detection.

'Lotte left the room and came back with a kitchen knife in her hand.' Braun's eyelids tightened, creating a delta of creases that spread across his temples. Lowering his voice, suddenly absorbed by his own narrative, he murmured: 'I can see her now, standing there in the doorway, brandishing that great knife – out of breath – panting like an animal. She looked at me for a few moments, and then came rushing in. All that I can remember are those eyes and thinking How beautiful – and how terrible. . . I didn't try to defend myself, I felt curiously detached. She would have killed me, I'm certain. But something happened. There was an accident – an act of God, you might say – and I was saved. She tripped over the rug, and fell. She ended up sprawled out at my feet, and the knife went skittering across the floor – it went under the chaise longue. I suddenly came to my senses. Before she could get up again I threw myself on top of her. Of course, she struggled – kicked and shouted. But I managed to hold her down. Eventually she gave up, just went limp and started crying . . . It was a close thing – she could have killed me.' Braun shook his head and mumbled: 'It was difficult to loathe – I'm sorry – love her, after that.'

Liebermann immediately seized on the implications of Braun's verbal slip. It suggested to him that, although Braun might claim otherwise, he still harboured feelings of affection for his beautiful and volatile paramour.

'What do you know about her past? Her childhood?'

'We didn't talk about such things.'

'Why not?'

'I don't know, we just didn't – although I think Lotte had an unhappy childhood. Her parents died when she was quite young, and she had to fend for herself – but I don't know a lot more than that.'

'Were you not interested?'

'She didn't want to talk – and I didn't want to press the matter. Besides, the past is the past, Doctor. What's done is done, eh?'

'Herr Braun,' asked Liebermann, 'who do you think killed Fräulein Löwenstein?'

'At first I thought it might have been Theodore Roche – but I'm not so sure now. He was a proud man, just the sort to seek revenge. But he had no imagination. That business with the bullet and the locked door . . . the figurine in the box . . . extraordinary. I have no idea how it was done.' Braun's lips curved to form a faint, cynical smile. 'So maybe it was a devil. Maybe they do exist, after all.'

The young man opened his eyes and looked up, straining to see Liebermann.

'I don't suppose, Herr Doctor, that you have a bottle of something or other hidden away in here?'

'No,' said Liebermann. 'I don't.'

'I find that difficult to believe. I know how much you medical men appreciate a tipple.'

Liebermann did not respond, and Braun let his head fall back into its original position.

'I understand that Fräulein Löwenstein met privately with Herr Uberhorst. Do you know anything about that?'

'Yes, that's right. He was always dropping in to see her – for extra consultations. To tell the truth, I think she had a bit of a soft spot for him – poor Karl.'

'Why do you say "poor Karl"?'

'Have you met him?'

'No.'

'Well, if you had, you'd understand. Pathetic man. Lonely. Suffers from nerves, if you ask me.' Braun turned his head and said quickly, 'Only a layman's opinion, of course, but I'm sure you'd agree.'

'Fräulein Löwenstein felt sorry for him?'

'Yes, certainly. She could have fleeced him – relieved him of everything, down to his last heller. But do you know what? She was satisfied to accept two krone for an hour of her time.'

'Did she entertain any of the other men privately?'

'From the circle?'

'Yes.'

'None that I know of – only Karl. I used to say to her, "What on Earth do you think you're doing, running a charity?" '

'And what did she reply?'

'She said that he was a sad man and needed help. It was a side of her character that she rarely exhibited. He's a small chap . . . I think he brought out her maternal instinct.'

'Herr Braun, what did you intend to do – after the child was born?'

'What child?'

'The autopsy showed that Fräulein Löwenstein was three months pregnant. She would have had twins.'

'You must be mistaken, Herr Doctor. Lotte and I . . . we had stopped having relations of any kind. We had not made love for many, many months.'

'I can assure you, Herr Braun, that at the time of her death Lotte Lowenstein was pregnant.'

Braun sat up and, turning, let his legs slide over the side of the divan. His eyes flashed with anger.

'Don't try to trick me, Herr Doctor. There's only one magician in this room – and it isn't you.'

THE DOORMAN BOWED and clicked his heels as the couple left the Hotel Bristol. Rheinhardt rewarded the man with a generous tip, given so discreetly that his wife – even though her arm was linked with his – did not notice. If their progress was more ponderous than usual, it was on account of the meal that they had just enjoyed. It had stretched to accommodate some five courses, the last of which was (to Rheinhardt's satisfaction) a particularly sweet Marillenknödel – apricots in curd cheese dumplings, sprinkled with breadcrumbs and roasted in butter.

A cab was already waiting outside, the driver patiently stroking the horse with the handle of his whip. Rheinhardt opened the door for his wife and, holding her hand, guided Else up onto the footplate. A strand of mousy brown hair had fallen from beneath her hat. Although her face had become more round with age, it retained a certain girlish quality and her full figure had not exceeded the limits of Rubenesque beauty. As Else stepped into the cab, Rheinhardt took the liberty of raising her skirt, just a little, to ensure that she would not stumble. This small service was administered so tactfully that, like his tipping, it escaped Else's attention completely.

The cab rolled down the Ringstrasse, past the art and natural history museums and west into Josefstadt. As Rheinhardt looked out of the window, Else, replete with the evening's indulgences, rested her cheek on his shoulder. The cab rumbled along, bouncing on the cobbles, rocking her head from side to side. The interior became warm and slightly stuffy. Rheinhardt's thoughts, like detritus in a whirlpool, were drawn in ever-decreasing circles towards a single point of contemplation: Otto Braun.

Rheinhardt had assumed that Else had fallen asleep and was therefore surprised when his cogitations were disturbed by a question: 'What are you thinking?'

Rheinhardt gave himself a moment to compose an anodyne response and replied: 'I am thinking how beautiful you look in your new dress.'

'Oskar,' said Else, a certain drowsiness thickening her voice, 'you should know by now that I am not one to be bamboozled with flattery.'

The Inspector chuckled, and turned to kiss the ribbon on his wife's hat.

'All right, I confess,' said Rheinhardt. 'I am a little preoccupied. But I have no wish to spoil our anniversary by discussing a murder inquiry.'

'Nothing could spoil our anniversary,' said Else. 'It has been a wonderful evening, and I am very, very happy.' Saying this, she heaved herself up and nuzzled more deeply into his shoulder.

'And you like your dress?'

'I love it.'

As they progressed past the regularly spaced lamp-posts, the cab was softly illuminated with pulses of amber. The black leather of the upholstery creaked as Rheinhardt made himself more comfortable, leaning more heavily against the woodwork.

'Well?' asked Else.

'Well, what?'

The regular rhythm of the lamplight was strangely calming.

'What are you thinking?'

Rheinhardt hesitated and Else continued: 'It's the Leopoldstadt murder. You're thinking about that, aren't you?'

'Yes,' said Rheinhardt, sighing. 'Max interviewed the principal suspect today – a man called Otto Braun. He was a member of Fräulein Löwenstein's spiritualist circle and he hadn't been seen since the night of the murder. He's a stage magician – a fact that we considered highly relevant, given the circumstances of the crime.'

'And . . .?' said Else, with gentle persistence.

'I was hoping that he would confess. But he did nothing of the sort. And the Commissioner is growing increasingly impatient.'

'Will you let Braun go?'

'We'll have to.'

'And what will you do then?'

'I really don't know . . .'

The cab slowed, before picking up speed again, to let an omnibus pass at the crossroads.

'You know,' said Else, yawning, 'I was reading a very interesting article in my Ladies' Journal the other day.'

'Oh?'

'About a woman called Madame de Rougemont – she lives in Paris. She has helped the French police solve many crimes.'

'How does she do it?'

'She's a medium, like Fräulein Löwenstein.'

'Are you suggesting that I—'

'The Sûreté are not too proud to use her,' Else cut in.

'The Sûreté are . . . well, French. We have very different ways of doing things here in Vienna. Besides, I dread to think what Max would say if I suggested such a thing.'

'Doctor Liebermann does not know everything,' said Else bluntly.

LIEBERMANN TURNED A corner and came face to face with Professor Wolfgang Gruner. The two men started – and even recoiled a little – as though they had both walked into an invisible wall.

'Ah, Doctor Liebermann,' said Gruner, collecting himself. 'If you have a moment, I would like to see you in my office.'

'Now?' asked Liebermann tentatively.

'Yes, now,' said Gruner.

Liebermann looked at his wristwatch.

'My next patient is at three.'

'What I have to say will not take long.'

The two men marched down the corridor in silence, sustaining a synchronised, almost military step. However they maintained a conspicuous distance from each other, as though each possessed the polar properties of magnets and were driven apart by mutually repellent fields of force. In due course, the absence of polite pleasantries and their palpable antipathy became embarrassing and uncomfortable in equal measure. Liebermann was greatly relieved when they finally reached the door of Gruner's office.

Inside, the room was gloomy and seemed curiously subaquatic. Weak spears of watery light angled through the mossy curtains, illuminating motes that glided through the air with the lymphatic grace of protozoa. Scattered around the floor were numerous battery boxes – like ancient treasure chests long since forgotten on the seabed of the Spanish Main.

A tall glass cabinet displayed several rows of specimen jars in which spongy brain parts trailing threads of nervous tissue floated in a suspension of yellowing formaldehyde. The cabinet looked like a gruesome aquarium and one vessel – slightly larger than the rest – contained an object that made Liebermann shudder: a decomposing abortus with two heads. Flakes of white flesh had collected at the bottom of the jar, indicating that the specimen was of considerable age. This medical oddity – of unknown provenance – was the centre-piece of Gruner's macabre collection.

'Please sit,' Gruner commanded.

'Thank you,' replied Liebermann, drawing a heavy wooden chair closer to Gruner's imposing desk.

'Doctor Liebermann,' Gruner began, 'I understand that you have been treating the English governess, Miss Amelia Lydgate. She was expecting to receive electrotherapy for a persistent hysterical cough and associated paralysis. How many sessions of electrotherapy have you administered, Doctor Liebermann?'

'None, sir.'

'Could you explain why?'

'Her symptoms are not the result of a weakened nervous system. They are the logical consequence of several traumatic experiences. As such, they have meaning. Consequently I am of the opinion that electrotherapy is not the treatment of choice, sir.'

Gruner sat back in his chair like Neptune on his throne. The desk had been placed in front of the window and Liebermann could not see Gruner's face against the glare. All that he could make out was the silhouette of the professor's head and a glowing aureole of frizzled hair.

'So,' said Gruner. 'Miss Lydgate's symptoms have meaning. Would you care to elaborate?'

'Since taking up her position as governess,' Liebermann began, 'Miss Lydgate has been repeatedly importuned by her employer. Eventually the man lost control of himself and assaulted her. He succeeded in kissing Miss Lydgate – which she experienced as a feeling of suffocation. Her cough, therefore, is the result of a repressed traumatic memory.' Liebermann noticed that Gruner was already drumming his fingers on the desk impatiently. 'Miss Lydgate's paralysis,' Liebermann continued, 'arose at the same time as her employer – frustrated and probably drunk – attempted to penetrate her. His abominable behaviour produced in Miss Lydgate a powerful but to her unacceptable wish to kill him. A pair of scissors lay within reach. Torn between the need to protect herself and the unacceptability of committing a murder, she became paralysed. Her murderous impulse was repressed and around it the contents of her own unconscious became organised in the form of a secondary, more primitive personality, which calls itself Katherine. It is this secondary personality, that now controls Miss Lydgate's right arm. In my opinion, when this psychic breach is repaired, when the division between Katherine and Miss Lydgate is healed, Miss Lydgate's paralysis will disappear. I believe that this can only be achieved through psychotherapy.'

Gruner stopped drumming his fingers and leaned forward.

'And what evidence do you have for this extraordinary formulation?'

'The secondary personality surfaces when Miss Lydgate is reminded of the sexual assault. At such times she experiences a seizure, during which she behaves aggressively and recovers the use of her right arm. These seizures are reliably induced by an olfactory stimulus – namely, the cologne used by her employer. It should also be noted that this cologne may have played some part in provoking Miss Lydgate's cough – it is of a heavy and cloying variety.'

'Herr Doctor,' Gruner responded, 'I am appalled at your naivety.' Gruner paused, allowing a lengthy and profoundly unsettling hiatus to ripen. Liebermann squinted into the glare that was blazing in through the window, trying to read Gruner's expression – but it was impossible. Eager to end the excruciating deadlock, Liebermann responded, finding words that were honest rather than diplomatic.

'I'm afraid that I must disagree, sir.'

'Doctor Liebermann,' Gruner began again, this time without any pause, 'I find it difficult to believe that a young man educated in one of the finest medical institutions in the world should be duped quite so easily. As we all know, the female hysteric is cunning, malicious and histrionic. She is a consummate seductress. The credulous physician is easy prey, lured by her confessions into her world of sordid fantasy. By taking her ridiculous flights of fancy seriously, you engage in an act of collusion that legitimises her psychopathology. Only a fool would attempt to interpret hysterical symptoms – as only a fool would attempt to interpret dreams.'

Liebermann resisted the urge to respond to Gruner's pointed dig at Professor Freud.

'Have you taken the trouble, Doctor Liebermann,' Gruner's voice was becoming louder, 'to discover the identity of Miss Lydgate's employer?'

'Yes,' Liebermann replied. 'I have. His name is Schelling.'

'That is correct,' said Gruner. '

Minister Schelling. He is greatly admired by his colleagues and possesses a deserved reputation for upholding the highest standards of moral rectitude. It has been my great privilege to sit with Minister Schelling, in my capacity as a trustee, on several committees for the promotion of charitable causes. To suggest that he would have repeatedly molested a young governess is utterly absurd. The girl is clearly disturbed. I would strongly suggest that when you next see Miss Lydgate, you administer the appropriate treatment immediately. I would recommend the Faradic moxa, an electrical brush passed through the throat cavity that will deal with her cough in one session. You will find the procedure detailed in Erb's Handbook. The paralysis may take a little longer, but will probably remit within seven days. Good afternoon.'

Liebermann remained seated.

'I said "Good afternoon", Herr Doctor.'

Liebermann swallowed.

'With respect, Herr Professor, I do not think that I am prepared to follow your instructions.'

'Are you refusing to treat the patient?'

'No . . .'

'Then what are you saying?'

'In my opinion, the patient's account of her traumatic experiences is accurate. Therefore I should continue to treat her psychologically.'

Gruner slammed his hand down on the desk. The dull thud was followed by the ethereal thrum of vibrating glassware – the ghostly, high-pitched song of things unspeakable floating in their dusky preservative media.

'Doctor Liebermann,' the professor growled, 'a refusal to administer the appropriate treatment is tantamount to negligence. I regret to say that I will be obliged to request your immediate dismissal.'

Liebermann had known that a confrontation with Professor Gruner was inevitable at some point; however, now that the long-awaited ultimatum had actually been delivered he felt unprepared.

'Well?' asked Gruner.

Liebermann began to compose a reply in his head. His heart was beating wildly.

Professor Gruner, much as I would like to retain my position at this hospital, I cannot act against my conscience . . .

Liebermann took a deep breath and began to speak:

'Professor Gruner, much as I—'

There was a loud knock on the door and Liebermann stopped as Gruner shouted, 'Enter.'

The door opened and Nurse Rupius appeared.

Gruner shook his head violently.

'Not now, Nurse Rupius, not now! I am engaged in discussion with Doctor Liebermann.'

The nurse hesitated and was about to close the door when she seemed to change her mind. Two orderlies ran past in the corridor outside.

'Professor Gruner,' said Nurse Rupius. 'One of your patients – Signora Locatelli – she's dead.'

'Dead!' Gruner rose from his chair. 'What do you mean, dead?'

The nurse stepped into the room.

'It appears that she tied her bed sheets around a water pipe in the washroom and hung herself. We don't know how long she's been there.'

HEINRICH HöLDERLIN was walking briskly down a narrow street. He entered a cobbled square at the centre of which stood a large statue of Moses. As he passed the monumental bronze a resonant voice filled the enclosed space: 'Herr Hölderlin.'

The banker was startled: it was as though he had just been addressed by the lawgiver.

'Herr Hölderlin – over here!' the voice boomed.

Peering around the statue, Heinrich Hölderlin caught sight of Hans Bruckmüller, seated by himself at a single table outside a tiny coffee house aptly named the Kleines Café. It had no front windows and the entrance was a very modest double door, one half of which had been propped open with an iron doorstop. A bicycle was leaning against the wall next to Bruckmüller's table. Hölderlin assumed that it did not belong to the big man. It was impossible to imagine him perched on such a spindly frame.

'Good afternoon, Herr Bruckmüller.'

'Good afternoon, Hölderlin. Coffee?'

Hölderlin made a show of examining his pocket watch and then, after feigning some mental calculations, replied, 'Yes, why not?'

Bruckmüller leaned back in his chair and bellowed into the gloomy interior of the tiny coffee house.

'Egon!'

Immediately a rangy young man with a downy moustache and sparse side-whiskers appeared. He was little more than a boy.

'Another fiacre for me. And you, Hölderlin?'

'A melange.'

The boy bowed and loped into the darkness.

Hölderlin sat at the table, removed his hat, and wiped a flat hand over his bald head.

'You are a frequent patron, Bruckmüller?'

'Yes, I am. It's a little haven, a splendid place for quiet contemplation.'

'Then perhaps I have disturbed you?'

'Not at all,' said Bruckmüller, smiling. But the smile was too hasty and lingered for longer than was strictly necessary.

Hölderlin placed the volume he was carrying on the table and Bruckmüller lowered his head to read the spine.

'Isis Unveiled.'

'By Madame Blavatsky.'

'Interesting?'

'I don't know. To be honest, I haven't read it – it belongs to my wife. I've just been to collect it from Herr Uberhorst. Juno lent him this book over a month ago.'

'And he didn't return it?' said Bruckmüller, surprised.

'No,' said Hölderlin. 'Although such an oversight can be forgiven.'

'Yes,' said Bruckmüller, relenting. 'Under the circumstances . . .'

The waiter returned with a silver tray and slid it onto the table. Bruckmüller's fiacre exuded a strong smell of rum and was topped with a spiral shell of whipped cream. The frothed milk in Hölderlin's melange seemed animate and bubbly, like frog's spawn, and was creeping over the lip of his coffee cup. He interrupted its journey with a teaspoon and scooped the foam into his mouth.

'His behaviour – at the seance . . .' Bruckmüller looked across the square at the Renaissance façade of the Franziskankirche. The church's high, involute gable was adorned with saints and Egyptian obelisks. 'What did you make of it?'

'Difficult to say . . .'

'He wanted to know whether he should tell them. You thought he meant the police, didn't you?' The banker looked distinctly uncomfortable. 'And a matter of honour? What on earth did he mean by that?'

Hölderlin took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the beads of perspiration from his crown.

'It's a long walk from Herr Uberhorst's,' he said apologetically.

'I've never had the pleasure.'

'He has a small workshop in Leopoldstadt.'

'Then you should have hailed a cab!'

Hölderlin applied the handkerchief to his forehead.

'The weather is improving – I thought it would be pleasant to walk.'

'The taking of regular constitutionals is undoubtedly a good habit and it aids digestion, so I'm told.' Bruckmüller lifted his glass and took a sip of his fiacre. 'Are you all right, Hölderlin? You seem a little—'

'Hot, that's all.' Hölderlin interrupted. 'I think I overdid it.'

Bruckmüller nodded and gestured towards the Blavatsky.

'May I?'

'Of course.'

Bruckmüller picked up the volume and let the pages fan beneath his thumb, stopping occasionally. When he had completed this cursory examination he lifted his head and looked at his companion.

'Was it some demon, do you think?' Bruckmüller's voice was a confidential rumble.

'The spirit said so.'

'Yes . . . but I'm asking what you think, Hölderlin. I know what the spirit said, but what's your opinion?'

Hölderlin looked around the square uneasily, as if trying to locate any eavesdroppers. The area was empty.

'I think such things are possible. However—' He paused and toyed with his teaspoon. 'I suspect that Herr Uberhorst would no longer subscribe to such a view.'

'He cannot accept that Fräulein Löwenstein dabbled in the black arts,' said Bruckmüller sagely. 'How naive.'

'Indeed. But there's more to it than that, I feel.'

'Oh?'

'In his workshop I noticed numerous lock mechanisms. In vices and on the table. He had been dismantling them . . . and there were instruments everywhere.'

'The man's a locksmith, Hölderlin! What did you expect?'

'Tweezers? Knitting needles? Magnets? There was even a hospital syringe. It was like a laboratory.'

Bruckmüller shook his head: 'I don't understand . . .'

'I think,' said Hölderlin, 'that Herr Uberhorst is trying to work out how it was done. I think he's trying to solve the mystery of the locked door.'

ELSE RHEINHARDT HAD been shopping in Leopoldstadt, where everything was so much cheaper. She had ordered a roll of fabric from a draper in Zirkusgasse that was at least half the price she would have paid on Karntner Strasse. Her expedition had taken her as far east as the Prater, and she decided to reward herself with lunch at the Café Eisvogel. She had a particular weakness for their honey-and-almond tart.

Else lingered for a while, watching the people come and go, observing the little dramas that constituted the affairs of the world: a couple in the corner were clearly enjoying an assignation; a group of gentlemen at the next table looked like conspirators; and a solitary young man by the window was writing what she imagined to be a poem on his napkin. In Vienna, the cafe had replaced the theatre. One could learn as much about human nature in the Eisvogel as one could by reading all the plays of Goethe, Molière or Shakespeare.

Else noticed the time and felt her conscience nettle. She had to return home. She had only accomplished the first three items on the crumpled list that occupied one of the pockets in her purse.

The sun was burning in a cloudless sky, and Else opened her parasol. She walked across a wide, open concourse in the direction of the Riesenrad. The giant wheel dwarfed the other buildings, even the four towers of the water chute. As she approached the Prohaska restaurant, Else was surprised to see her husband sitting at one of the many outside tables. Her instinct was to call out and run over. Her step had already quickened when the automatic smile on her face froze and disintegrated.

There was a woman sitting next to him – and they were both laughing.

Else did not recognise her, and judged her, even at a distance, to be quite attractive. She and Oskar seemed perfectly at ease together. Rheinhardt was smoking a cigar, and the woman seemed to be entertaining him with an amusing story.

It did not look like a police interview – or any other kind of professional engagement.

The woman leaned forward and, reaching over the table, rested a flirtatious hand on the sleeve of Rheinhardt's jacket. The gesture was confident enough to suggest an atmosphere of relaxed intimacy – and enough to shake the ground beneath Else's feet.

Else turned abruptly and walked back in the direction of the Café Eisvogel. She was utterly confused and proceeded in a daze. The Riesenrad, like the great wheel of fortune itself, turned slowly and impartially as the first angry tear rolled down Else's cheek.

KARL UBERHORST HAD got as far as the police station on Grosse Sperlgasse. He had stood outside the modest building for almost an hour, pacing, deliberating, doubting, questioning, before finally heading off towards the centre of town.

Since the ill-fated seance he had experienced considerable difficulty sleeping – and even when he did sleep there were the nightmares to contend with. The visitations from a now familiar company of vengeful demons and repulsive succubi; the shocked awakening followed by an icy trickle of sweat; the lingering terror that paralysed his body; and the hypnopompic presences that melted into darkness. As a result Uberhorst preferred to eschew sleep and spend the small hours wandering the streets of the Innere Stadt. The comforting monotony of his night-time tread on the cobbles helped to calm his troubled mind.

It was approaching midnight when Karl Uberhorst found himself walking across the Graben. He slowed as he approached the plague monument – a mountain of writhing, tumbling bodies. There was something orgiastic in its excess, its unfettered, hysterical mass of swirling cloud, saints and putti. Indeed, it was as though the monument itself was diseased and had started to become excrescent, an amorphous mass of weeping chancres and swollen nodules. Climbing a few steps, he rested his hands on the balustrade and contemplated Faith and a winged cherub gleefully impaling the old hag Plague.

'Good evening, sir.'

She was suddenly standing next to him – a woman wearing a long flared coat and a veiled hat. He had not seen her standing behind the monument on his approach, and was startled by her appearance.

'Good evening,' he replied, stepping down.

'Lonely, are you?' Her voice was coarse and accented but her question was curiously penetrating.

Uberhorst wanted to answer: Yes, I am lonely.

He missed their little conversations, the smell of her golden hair as she examined the lines on his palm.

'I'm sure a man like you has a few krone to spare.' He couldn't place her accent – was she a Ruthene or a Pole? 'Why don't you walk me to my room, over in Spittelberg? It's a long walk, but by the time we get there we'll have got to know each other really well. How about it?'

As he looked at her, the woman's face blurred. Her eyes became enlarged and her lips more full: Fräulein Löwenstein's smile shimmered across the whore's broad features.

Perhaps he could ask this woman to sit with him, to hold his hand, like she had?

The whore laughed and came closer, reaching out and rubbing the collar of Uberhorst's coat between her thumb and forefinger, like a tailor establishing the quality of the cloth. She was taller than him and he found himself staring into her bosom.

He looked away, embarrassed.

'Don't be shy . . .'

Again he was forced to contemplate the old hag, and was reminded that Vienna was in the grip of another plague. If he allowed himself to be seduced, not only was there the risk of infection to consider but also the indignity of subsequent treatment. Weeks spent lying in a hospital bed, having mercury rubbed into his body, until his teeth fell out – one by one.

'No, thank you, Fräulein,' he said curtly, touching his hat. 'Good evening.'

Uberhorst pulled away and walked off at a brisk pace.

'You'll regret it later,' the prostitute called out.

He lengthened his stride, eventually breaking into a graceless canter.

The shadow-memory of Fräulein Löwenstein's face had played on the whore's lineaments like bright sunlight on murky water. Uberhorst was still obsessed with the dead medium.

He must tell the police.

He must tell them what he knew.

He must tell them what he suspected . . .

Looking up, he caught sight of the cathedral spire tapering off into ghostly invisibility as it climbed beyond the luminescent haze of the street lights.

Uberhorst felt like a haunted man. How could he be sure that Charlotte Löwenstein was not with him even now? Her spectral step shadowing his, her cold ectoplasmic arm linked with his. Would she chastise him from beyond the grave for not keeping her secret?

I'm pregnant, she had said.

Her head had touched his shoulders. Her golden curls had touched his mouth.

What am I to do? she had asked.

He had not known – and they had sat in impotent silence as the minutes of the afternoon had ebbed away.

Now he was prompted to ask himself the same question.

What am I to do?

The door of the cathedral was open, and Uberhorst crept into the cold, redemptive world of St Stephen's. As he did so, he felt something close to relief. He had been yearning for the security and certainty of his former faith: the stolid predictability of stations and ritual, the spiritual epicentre of Rome.

The vastness of the cathedral was suffused with a Stygian gloom. A seemingly boundless obscurity concealed a lofty vaulting that could be sensed – as a continent of stone pressing down from above – but not seen. Uberhorst made a sign of the cross and walked past the flickering remnants of votive candles down the central nave.

The sepulchral silence was disturbed by a curious squeaking, which heralded the appearance of a moving light in the distance: an ignis fatuus, blinking in and out of existence as it floated behind the colossal Gothic columns. It was the sacristan lighting the lamps.

Uberhorst felt trepidation as he approached the high altar where a baroque panel showed St Stephen being stoned to death in front of the walls of Jerusalem. Above him the heavens had been rent apart, revealing Christ at the right hand of God.

Uberhorst genuflected and slipped into a pew. Kneeling, he touched his forehead against hands joined together in prayer.

Somewhere a door opened and closed.

'Father, forgive me,' he whispered.

His sibilant prayer of atonement bounced between columns of black marble, heeded only by the mute statues of clerics, madonnas and angels.